


Huntsman, What Quarry, Part I

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Romance, Series: Project 57 The Redemption, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-12
Updated: 1999-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 02:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 57,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair try to repair their relationship, but a gruesome killer is hunting Blair and his friends. So distracted by the search for this monster, neither Jim nor Blair realize the true evil that has slipped into their midst.<br/>This story is a sequel to Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part III.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This story has been split into four parts for easier loading.

## Huntsman, What Quarry, Part I

by Kadru

Author's webpage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Part of the Project 57 Series. Sequel to Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part III 

Disclaimer: Jim, Blair, Rafe, Simon, Henri, Rhonda and Wendy Hawthorne all belong to Pet Fly. This piece of fiction was written without the production of any cash or profit. Please send lawyers elsewhere. But . . . Collin MacPherson, Ian Yoshito, Nic Bekaye, Carl Porter, Kelly Simms and jeez a whole damn host of others . . . all of those puppies belong to me. I can hex you. Don't make me. 

Summary: Jim and Blair try to repair their relationship, but a serial killer is hunting Blair and his friends. So distracted by the search for this killer, neither Jim nor Blair realize the true evil that has slipped into their midst. 

Warning: NC17 for graphic sex, but then, you expected that, didn't you. Also, a plethora of dirty words. Most importantly, the violence in this story is particularly bloody. And, by this time, do I need to warn you about angst? It's here. Big time. 

Notes: A huge, and I mean, a huge thank you to my beta's. To Jack, for untying some really dirty knots for me. To Christi, who is the best mystery reader in the world -- I have had a very difficult time tricking her steel-trap mind. To Righ, for sniffing out all kinds of errors. And to Rie, Patron Saint of Misplaced Modifiers, for taking the time to shift through this mess. I can't say enough on this -- you should see the beta'd copies when they came back! Oi vay, did I ever send them a trouble twisted tale this time! If I missed something, trust me, it wasn't because they missed it, but because I got lost in all the corrections. My thanks also to Hooly and Ash for sniffing out Wendy Hawthorne's name. And, when you get to the raspberry joke, and I hope y'all do, that joke came from Mega. 

IF YOU HAVE NOT READ "TIME," STOP! "Time Does Not Bring Relief" is a murder mystery, and this final story builds on it. You'll only be ruining your reading if you take them out of order. The full series is located on my site as well as on the 852 Prospect Archive. 

All that business said and done, the curtain opens . . . . 

* * *

Hunstman, What Quarry?, Part I - 1/4 

"Huntsman, what quarry  
On the dry hill  
Do your hounds harry? 

When the red oak is bare  
And the white oak still  
Rattles its leaves  
In the cold air:  
What fox runs there?" 

"Girl, gathering acorns  
In the cold autumn,  
I hunt the hot pads  
That ever run before,  
I hunt the pointed mask  
That makes no reply,  
I hunt the red brush  
Of remembered joy." 

"To tame or to destroy?" 

"To destroy." 

  * Edna St. Vincent Millay 



* * *

July 16, 1974  
Portland, Oregon 

A growing hunger drove him. Carefully, the brown-haired adolescent looked over his shoulder to check the narrow hallway outside his bedroom. He listened intently. His mother was inside the kitchen, busy with dinner. She wouldn't see him. Once inside his bedroom, he slowly closed the door, but not all the way. /It's against the rules to close the door./ He waited for a few tense moments with the door opened just a crack. But his mother didn't notice. 

In contrast to how slowly he had moved in the hallway, the ten-year-old boy dashed across his room to his closet. He tore open the door and pushed aside his board games, searching for where he had stashed the magazine Freddie had given him after yesterday's football game. The lurid colors -- red and yellow -- excited him, almost as much as the images of naked men and women. He looked up slightly before opening the first page. /Momma's not there./ The photographs called to him again, and he couldn't take his eyes away from the strong muscles of the men, their hairy chests, their furry legs, their hard cocks. With each glossy page, he saw different men, some with mustaches and beards, others with smooth chests. He especially liked the hair between their navels and groins. His cock grew hard against his shorts. 

"Arthur! What are you doing with this door closed?!" 

At the sound of his mother's harsh voice, the boy flung the magazine away from him, the pages flapping. The pornography landed at her feet, and slowly, she bent down to pick it up. 

"Arthur! You filthy, filthy boy!" She snatched him closer to her face. When she saw his beige shorts tented by his erection, her mouth wrinkled with disgust. "Come with me!" She yanked him from his room, and the frightened boy fought to keep up with her rapid footsteps. When he realized where she was taking him, he began to drag his feet. 

"Nooooo," he begged. 

His father's office. His dead father's office. The man who had died when Arthur was five and who had sold medical books to doctors and hospitals for a living. 

His mother tossed him into a green leather chair. "Sit!" she commanded. The small boy trembled. In seconds she had pulled out a massive medical tome and opened the book to a random page. The smell of dust was the first thing to attack him. "Look at this!" she shouted. 

Arthur turned away. 

She yanked his head towards the page. Gruesome images of bloody surgeries glared at him. Instantly his stomach churned. 

"That will clean those filthy thoughts from your sick, perverted head!" 

* * *

October 19, 1998  
Cascade, Washington 

With his fingers pressing the skin across his cool forehead, Jim fought the urge to look up from his paperwork to check the clock again. For the past week, he had been so focused on the minutes and hours ticking by that Rhonda had teased him about being a union clock watcher. He had growled at her, but the point had been made. Others had noticed. So now he could feel his neck straining, wanting desperately to look at the clock. Jim sighed and rolled his eyes. /Jeez, it's still early in the morning and already I can't concentrate./ 

He and Sandburg had endured too much over the course of the past few weeks, what with Didion's death, and then Bass', followed by the revelation of their involvement with Project 57. The recent dedication ceremony and its resulting assassinations had jarred the entire Major Crimes staff, but none more so than Blair. He had been injected with an altered form of heroin, one that spread quickly into his bloodstream and had come very close to killing him. Jim shuddered when he thought of it. Then, last Monday, Blair had called Simon, asking if it would be all right for him not to come in for at least a week. Simon had readily agreed, assuring the observer that he could take as much time as he needed. 

Jim couldn't hide from himself how much it hurt that Blair hadn't called him. In fact, Jim hadn't heard anything from him for the remainder of the week. This past weekend, his phone had remained eerily silent. Not even telemarketers or wrong numbers. Twice, Jim had lifted the receiver, just to make sure there was a dial tone and that his phone wasn't disconnected. He felt pathetic the first time he did that, but the second time, he felt abject dejection. On that first day, that Monday when Blair had called Simon and not him, Jim began to panic. Just the day before, he had gone to Blair and Collin's apartment and had left a poem and a note \-- a poem he knew Blair loved. Blair had been the one to point it out to him months before. Jim had remembered reading it, turning to Blair and saying, "I hope I never know what that feels like." 

Then Blair had kissed him. 

At his desk, Jim closed his eyes, the memory giving him pain. 

And they had made love the rest of that afternoon, in lazy, hushed tones and gentle smiles. 

/God, I'm such a fool./ 

When there had been no reaction to his note, Jim had crashed. He had felt suddenly stranded, at a loss what to do. But not how to feel. He couldn't cry, but he wanted to. He felt his chest ache with the rejection, and when Blair had given him no specific reasons, Jim had imagined them \-- angry, spiteful recriminations and humiliating insults. Nightmares of Blair laughing at him with pointed finger. Even so, he held out some hope, trying to bolster his spirits. /Blair said he just needed some space, so I shouldn't over-react when he takes it. He could still come back to me. He could still come back to me./ 

This self-inflicted roller coaster of hope and despair had taken its toll. Dark circles were forming under Jim's eyes. And every day that Sandburg was gone, Jim had continued to glance at the clock on the bullpen wall, watching as time slipped by, praying that he would still come in, even if it were late. But he never did. 

Jim closed his eyes, and his memory drifted back to last Thursday when he had overheard Rafe on the phone. "Thanks, Hairboy. I'll catch you later." 

"Was that Blair?" 

Rafe had looked over. "Yeah. Did you need him?" 

"Was he calling for me?" 

"Nah. I called him." 

"What for?" 

Rafe had narrowed his dark eyebrows at the request. Jim had almost expected him to say "none of your business." But Rafe had answered him, "Banks just gave me a routine missing persons. Two guys. Both are students at Rainier. Wondered if Sandburg knew them. He said he didn't." 

Jim had nodded, then had tried unsuccessfully to focus on work again. 

As he was trying this morning. Yet another week to endure after a weekend gone by with no contact from his guide. He took a deep breath, closed the file he was working on, then lifted another from the wire basket at the corner of his desk. 

An hour later, he thought he heard something. Dialing up his hearing, he heard it again -- the unmistakable rhythms of his partner. At first Jim wondered if his mind was finally playing tricks on him, and again he focused on the sounds, and seconds later, on the smell. /It is him! He's coming! He's finally coming!/ 

Blair Sandburg casually drifted through the doorway, his wild hair flying behind him. Rafe and Henri were the first to spot him. "Hairboy!" They rushed on him with a flurry of high fives and hand jives and shoulder slaps. Moments later, Blair glanced in Jim's direction, and his grin faded into a more polite, reserved smile. 

Jim's heart raced. All over he could feel body heat radiating from his skin. He couldn't catch his breath, and his muscles trembled so badly that he didn't trust himself to stand. As though separated from the event, Jim couldn't understand why his body was reacting so nervously. The embarrassment at his reaction caused him to blush. 

If Blair saw it, he ignored it. He moved around the sharp corner of Jim's desk, then shucked his backpack onto the floor next to an empty chair. "Hey," he said softly. 

"H-hey," Jim stuttered. "How are you feeling?" 

"I'm okay. Thanks." 

After an awkward pause, Jim forced himself to ask, "Did you get my note?" 

"Yeah." 

/Just . . . yeah?/ 

"Oh . . ." Jim swallowed hard. "Okay." 

He turned his eyes towards the open file and began closing doors inside. He dialed down his hearing, shutting off the seductive call of his guide's heartbeat. He pushed down his sense of smell to keep from picking up traces of his guide's pheromone-less scent. With his vision high, he inspected the white paper in front of him -- the cottony white fibers of the pulp, the flecks of bark, the slight imperfections in the sheet's smoothness. /A zone would save me now./ Anything to keep from experiencing Blair's presence. Anything to keep the sensations in his heart from showing. Tonight, he would cry. There was no longer any doubt about it. When he slipped into his darkened loft, he would fall onto his sofa and let the breakdown begin. But not now. Not now. 

Several minutes passed in silence when suddenly Simon burst from his office, shoving one arm into his navy blazer jacket. "Ellison, come with me!" he shouted before he noticed Sandburg sitting there, reading a book. "Oh, hey kid. Good to see you again. You doing all right?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine." 

"Good. We've got a homicide in one of the industrial parks on the south side of town. Let's roll." "Yes sir," Jim mumbled as he reached for his leather jacket and his holster. 

* * *

In his quiet office in Cascade General, Ian Yoshito sipped his breakfast tea. Bluish circles traced his almond-shaped eyes. For a few minutes, he closed them, trying to gain some semblance of rest before his first patient arrived that morning. It had been a while since he had slept for a full night. Every night, usually between two and four a.m., he would find himself again in the crowd at the dedication ceremony. Phillip Harrison would be coming closer, sometimes in his trenchcoat, other times in the white robes he and other Army Rangers had worn during their time in the Project's Virginia clinic. He would reach out for Ian, his young, dimpled baby-face so lost and confused -- or raging -- before exploding in a red starburst, coating Ian wet and dripping. 

And just as had happened last night, the first thought that came to his mind was his boyfriend Collin. Yes, Collin was indirectly related to the Project, being Sebastian's cousin. But he had not spent over a year working for the Project in their clinic, injecting experimental serums into unsuspecting soldiers. He was not part of their ugly secret. He was not a threat to them -- not like Ian. 

The doctor had been targeted so fast. Phillip Harrison had appeared in his office, complaining of tinnitis, and that afternoon, he had materialized out of the crowd with his weapon drawn. Ian set down his tea and sighed. Would the next killer appear this weekend? Tomorrow? Would his first patient today be an assassin in disguise? 

The fear and apprehension had worn him down. Rubbing his temples, Ian almost wanted the end to come finally, to free him of this life of paranoia and doubt. Something quick. Something painless. But whenever he thought of such a numb release, he worried about what Collin's reaction might be -- and thoughts of Collin brought to mind the one fear that haunted him even more than worries of his own death. The thick black wave of hair that curved from his forehead swept across his elegant hands. 

Eventually, somehow, Ian would draw Collin into this web of danger. A stray bullet. A car bomb. Another assassin parting the crowds with a loaded gun. Collin was not guilty of the transgressions Ian had committed, but he could pay. He could certainly pay. 

Setting his head on his desk, the handsome Japanese doctor groaned. He had to push Collin away. Somehow. He had to make Collin choose to leave him, for his own good. It would be the only way to keep him safe. Otherwise, Ian would have to live with the perpetual guilt that he had brought harm to someone he loved. 

For the second time. 

But did he have the strength to do that? Jim had done that with Blair, and Ian had witnessed first hand just how much that act had devastated them both. Frustration and anger rumbled in his gut. What options did he have? To see Collin killed -- as fatefully as if the Delphic oracles themselves had chanted it -- or would he have to deny himself what little measure of happiness and love he had been able to nest? 

* * *

Collin drained his coffee cup, then put it down on his cluttered desk in the only free corner he had. He retrieved the blue ballpoint pen from behind his ear, then dragged his hand through his long auburn hair. Across his desk, he had scattered piles of essays, but he had been ignoring them for several days now. Instead, he focused on one document only \-- the massive dissertation on Faulkner. He tapped the pen on the cover. It was done. He had passed it through the final review board moments before Bass had "died." All of last week, he had sweated and toiled through a grueling oral defense, even while having to deal with thoughts of Bass and Didion still alive and Blair moving around the apartment like a ghost. 

Collin took a deep breath. All of that meant he had taken his stress out on Ian. /Bless his heart,/ Collin thought. /He took it./ Begrudgingly, though. He had given Collin some breathing room after their first argument on Tuesday. This past weekend had been a little stressful, but not nearly as bad as the weekend before, when all hell had broken loose at the dedication ceremony. His last oral defense had been Friday, and he had to admit that they had been a little tame on him, and that most of his anxiety had been self-induced. The review board consisted of few southern literature experts, and so most of their questions had focused on general issues revolving around literary criticism. But all weekend, he had fretted over it, and that nervousness had detracted from any attempts Ian had made to get him to relax. 

Or to get him to talk. 

He knew their relationship was in trouble. The same signs he had seen two years before with Brian, his last partner, were beginning to rear their arrow-shaped snake-heads with him and Ian. Distance. A lack of intimacy. Little time spent together. He was now at a juncture. /Do I fix it, or do I let nature take its course?/ 

The navy-bound dissertation in the center of his desk drew his attention again, as it had all weekend long. Today was to be the day. Some time today he would know if his dissertation and oral defense had passed muster. If he was now going to be Doctor Collin MacPherson. 

/Dr. MacPherson. . . . And Dr. Yoshito./ 

/Whoda thunk it?/ 

The sudden rap on the frosted glass of his door startled him. "Come in!" 

Collin lifted his eyebrows as a stranger entered his office. He stood a few inches taller than himself, with rich copper skin and dark black hair hanging straight past his shoulders and even past his chest. His arched cheekbones and strong nose marked his Native American heritage. Several silver hoop earrings dangled in each ear. He wore tight, faded blue jeans and dark black boots, with a rawhide leather duster. When he focused on Collin, his black eyes wrinkled in the corners with a sweet, genuine smile. "Excuse me," he said softly, "are you Dr. MacPherson?" 

"No," Collin said lightly, "not yet, anyway." 

The stranger leaned back outside the doorway as if searching for a name plate. "Oh . . . I'm sorry. I was told this was his office." 

"No, no," Collin replied as he stood. "It's not that. It's just that I'm not _Doctor_ MacPherson. I'm still waiting for the review board." The man standing before him shook his head slightly, letting the information gel. Collin helped him out, "And you would be?" 

"I'm sorry." He held out his hand, and Collin instantly noticed the many silver rings on his fingers and the wide leather bands on his strong wrists. "My name is Nic Bekaye." 

"Pleased to meet you. What can I do for you?" 

"I'm here as an observer for the next few weeks. I'm an instructional designer for the Native American Prep School in Sante Fe." 

"Instructional design?" 

"I'm helping to build new course work and curricula for NAP." 

"Hmm." Collin leaned back on his desk, crushing essays and motioning for Nic to take a seat. "So how can I help you?" 

"I understand that you are the president of the gay and lesbian student organization." 

"I am." 

"Well, it's been my personal experience . . . as a gay man myself, you see? . . ." he waited for Collin to process the information. ". . . that founding and leading an organization that is usually not well received in some corners takes some skill and planning." 

Collin moved around the desk to return to his chair. As he did, he cleared his mind of one distracting thought -- that young Nic Bekaye was an incredibly attractive man. Collin certainly didn't need more drama in his life right now. By the time he sat down, he had folded himself into a professional demeanor. "Well, I didn't found the group. And to be quite honest, I don't see how I can help you with your curriculum. Are most of your students gay?" 

"Oh no. Probably very few. But one of the ways we recruit is by forming Native American student unions in non-reservation high schools. These groups often have a tough go of it. Again . . . from personal experience. I thought you might be able to help me in putting together some guidelines for group leaders in dealing with prejudice." 

"Well, I guess I could do that. I would guess you would have that experience yourself." 

"Me? Oh no, I'm no activist." Nic's effusive grin was infectious, and Collin instantly found himself relaxing around the man. 

"Hmm." Collin examined his fingernails for a moment, building up the courage to ask the next question. "So, uhm, what are your credentials for putting all this together?" 

Nic smiled. "I usually don't mention that, especially around other professors. But I have a Ph.D. in education." 

Collin nodded. 

"Most academics look down on the education majors." 

"Yes. That's true." 

"Do I count you in that group?" Nic asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Collin shook his head. "No, not really. Different discipline, but I know what you mean." 

"Well, that's an aside, really. My main reason for wanting to meet with you was the gay issue. I would like for you to help me put leader guides together, to help group leaders deal with racist issues." 

"Have you met with some of the other student union leaders? Especially since your issue is race?" 

"Actually, I have, but I won't be here for long, so I'm trying to meet with as many people as possible." 

"Well that makes sense." 

"I was also wondering if you knew of other gay or lesbian professors here on campus who I could meet with. Obviously, I don't have any problems identifying African-American or Asian-American professors, but I would like to rely on something other than gaydar." 

"I think I can help you there. But how many gay professors do you need to interview?" 

Nic cast his eyes down bashfully. "Well, I am . . . trying to meet as many people as I can before going back to the desert." 

"Ah. I see." 

"Thanks. I won't take up any more of your time today. But can I meet with you tomorrow?" 

"Sure. I don't see why not." 

"Good. How about tomorrow morning, around ten?" Collin only nodded, and Nic stood up to leave. "And think about those other contacts. Especially if you know someone else in the Anthropology department. The chancellor introduced me to a Dr. Morley, but I get the impression he thinks of me as just another object of study rather than a colleague." 

Collin almost laughed. "I've heard that from a lot of minority students." 

"Do you know of someone better for me to talk to?" 

Collin could only grin. 

* * *

Simon slowed his car to a stop outside the crime scene and shifted into park. From the back seat, Blair looked through the car window, recognizing the general area near the waterfront. Several police units and an ambulance had already arrived. Officers spanned yellow tape to block off the area. "Isn't this place abandoned?" Jim asked, breaking into Blair's thoughts. 

"Not exactly abandoned. Pacific Chemicals owns this warehouse, but they've had the place mothballed for months. It just so happened that they were having a real estate agent come in to start the process of selling this place. They were the ones to discover the body." 

Jim only nodded as he opened his car door. Blair followed along as Simon filled them in on more details. They were headed towards the front entrance when Blair noticed a uniformed police officer curling over the step railing, emptying his stomach. Blair immediately sympathized with him, and as he passed by the ambulance, he snatched up the paper towel roll he saw sitting on the metal bumper. /Poor rookie./ Jim and Simon walked past the sick officer without paying much attention to him, but Blair stopped. He placed his hand on the officer's shoulder and he held the roll where he could see it. "Here ya go, man. How 'bout save me some space. I should be here later." 

The officer wiped his mouth before looking up. "Oh, thanks Sandburg." 

Like a twisted screw, Blair's stomach cramped as he recognized the man. Rich Kolbe. He was a little older than Blair, but he had started on the force immediately after graduating from college. He was certainly no rookie. 

"Uhm, you okay?" 

Rich nodded. As Blair turned to catch up with Jim and Simon, Rich touched his arm. "Sandburg?" 

"Yeah, man?" 

"Don't . . ." The look on his pale, sweating face harrowed Blair. "Don't go in there." 

For a few seconds, Blair stood there, mesmerized by the look of horror in Rich's hazel eyes. His stomach chilled and clenched again. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder at the two metal doors that Jim and Simon had just walked through. He swallowed. His legs turned mechanically. His mind seemed a thousand miles away, watching from above as his body slowly approached the door, opened it, and stepped inside. Directly in front of him lay a concrete stairwell. Other officers were descending. Their faces were washed in shock, their eyes shadowed. Again, Blair felt the fear in his gut, but he knew he had to be there with Jim. That was his job. That was his promise to Incacha -- to be Jim's guide. 

Slowly he climbed the stairs, conscious of each concrete step, up one flight. Then he saw one of the EMT's sitting on the steps with his head between his knees, trying to catch his breath. /Oh man. This really sucks!/ He could hear others upstairs, so he climbed the second flight. At the head of the stairwell, he noticed Simon, his face frozen and expressionless, staring out the dusty window, obviously focusing on nothing in particular. But from the corner of Blair's eye, the garish red drew his attention. He couldn't resist looking -- he couldn't resist moving closer -- into the doorway where he saw Jim standing. 

Then with one gestalt, the vision attacked him, clawed and raped his soul with livid detail. Pinned against the cinder block wall, a naked human figure hung spread-eagle, his ankles and wrists tied with plastic rope. The victim's agony had been so extreme that in his struggle to escape, he had torn the skin around the ropes deep enough to expose muscle and bone. Blood had been splashed everywhere like a villainous sunburst. Starting at the viciously torn wrists, Blair's eyes trailed down the victim's bare arms. Myriad small cuts had bled the victim, matted his body hair and drawn flies. Blood had dried on his shoulders. His legs. 

When Blair saw the torso, his body involuntarily spasmed. The victim had been gutted, his skin removed, his abdomen opened, and his organs loosened to hang like wet ornaments. Blair tore his eyes away from the gore, looking up towards the victim's face. His long hair had been stained with blood, and thick ringlets of brown clung to his neck. The small cuts on his cheek didn't mar the victim's face. His eyes remained opened, though clouded and beginning to flatten. 

Blair fell back against the far wall. Meekly, a single word fell from his lips. "J - Jim." 

Suddenly he felt Jim's hands on his shoulders, pulling him from the room. Once in the hallway again with Simon, Jim drilled his ice-blue eyes into Blair. "You okay, Chief?" 

"I . . ." 

"Do you need some air?" 

"I . . . I know him." 

Jim's eyebrows narrowed. "You know the victim?" 

Blair could only nod. 

"Hey, Captain?" 

"Yeah?" Simon turned finally from his place at the window. 

"Sandburg can ID the body." 

"Who is it?" 

Blair found his voice. "B-Barry. Barry Parvin. He's a grad student at Rainier. In history." 

Simon stared at Blair for a second, then he reached for his cell phone to begin dialing. "Yeah, Rafe, it's Banks. I need you to get over to 1283 Denny Industrial Blvd, Warehouse 16. I think your missing persons case just got upgraded." 

* * *

The day Barry Parvin's body had been discovered was remembered by the Major Crimes department as total chaos. Removing the body from the warehouse had required two sets of paramedics -- the gore had nauseated one of the EMTs from the first ambulance and they required a second. In Forensics, Dan had begun the autopsy that morning, and he remained there for most of the day. Once back at the station, Simon shifted his detectives' assignments around. Because Parvin was a student at Rainier, and his description -- long hair, slender body -- matched those of Rafe's two missing persons, the case assignment went to him. Then Simon went with his gut -- he pulled Sandburg from Jim and asked him to work with Rafe. 

But not before springing it on Jim first. "Ellison!" he barked into the bullpen. 

Ellison didn't even jump as he heard Simon's call, he was so used to his tone. He rose from his desk and slipped into Simon's office. "What is it, sir?" 

"Sit down." 

Jim hated that. He hated hearing those words because they meant something heavy was coming down, and after this morning, he couldn't imagine anything heavier. 

"I've made a decision," Simon began, pausing to chew on his unlit cigar. "I'm moving Sandburg to work with Rafe on this Parvin case, and I'm assigning you with Brown." The captain waited, knowing Jim would spark into anger. He waited. He continued to wait. "Jim?" 

"Yes, sir?" 

"You . . . aren't going to go off about this?" 

Jim peered into his captain's dark eyes. Could he tell him that since this morning, since Blair's subtle rejection of his romantic overtures had blasted him from the seas, that things had changed? That things had been irrevocably altered between them? "No." 

Simon leaned forward. "Jim, what's wrong between you two?" 

"We . . . just . . . aren't together. That's all." 

Sitting back, Simon frowned. "Well, I still want you to be available to assist Rafe on this case. This is just too ugly and I need someone out there with his ears and eyes open. But this is Rafe's case. He had first call. I want you to be there if he needs you." 

"Yes sir." 

Rhonda's knuckles rapping on Simon's door interrupted them. "Yeah, what is it?" Simon barked. 

"Sir," she said with her whole body shaking, trying to control her anger. "We have a serious problem. You need to get out here, now." 

When Simon bolted through the door, the first thing he noticed was the white flash of a spotlight and the bulky black shape of a television camera. Several other men were clustered around the camera, holding up a silver fabric circle to ward off shadows and glare, poking long mikes into the action. "What the hell's going on here?" 

In the center of all this attention, a young blond woman wearing a bright pink suit spun around to face him. Simon instantly closed his eyes and groaned. Wendy Hawthorne. She had already caused enough trouble with his department when she had tried to do a news-style documentary. 

"Captain Banks," she spoke with bland efficiency, "could you update us please on the details of the Barry Parvin case?" 

Instantly Simon grew quiet. He snatched the hand-held microphone from her hands and motioned for Jim. "Get that mike over there. Brown? Rafe?" 

"Yes sir?" 

"Confiscate this equipment and show these people into interrogation room 3." 

"What?!" Wendy could only step around in an awkward square as she watched the other officers descend on her camera crew. One of the men in her group wouldn't release the camera. Rafe skillfully pulled his gun from his holster. At the sight of the angular black metal, the camera-man raised both hands and dropped his expensive equipment with a shattering crash. When Simon grabbed Wendy by the elbow, she quickly came to life, fighting him off. "Just what do you think you're doing?" 

Simon glared into her blonde-framed face and said fiercely, "Parvin's name has not be released to anyone. We're waiting to contact the family first. That you even know something about this indicates that you are in contact with the killer. I'm placing you under arrest for collusion." Then he smiled, "I'll take the liberty of calling your attorney. I assume he's the same one we have on file for you?" 

Wendy suddenly lost all color in her face. "Yes," she mumbled, "he's on retainer." 

"I thought so. Jim, show these kind people to the interrogation room." 

Thirty minutes later, her lawyer was present. As Simon escorted him into the room, the lawyer began to speak. The captain cut him off quickly. "I have one simple question for you, and you can work out the answer however damn way you want it, but I want it straight and by the book, understand me? I want to know how this woman found out that Barry Parvin was dead only hours after we did. Contact me when you've come up with it." 

As the lawyer tried to argue about false arrest and improper detention, Simon slammed the door in his face. Jim was not far from the room when it happened, and he quickly caught up with Simon. "Collusion, sir?" 

"First damn thing I could think of." 

An hour later, the lawyer pulled Simon, Blair and Rafe back into the interrogation room. "Do you have an answer for me?" 

Wendy sighed from her seat behind the plain table. Her three crew members sat in folding chairs against the wall. "This morning I received a call from an unnamed source." 

"Have you ever worked with this source before?" Simon asked. 

"No. All he told me was that a Rainier University student named Barry Parvin had been brutally murdered and that the police were trying to cover it up." 

Simon eyed Rafe with a disturbed expression before returning to face Wendy. "Do you have a transcript?" "No. We pulled our equipment together and came over." 

"When did you receive this call?" 

"About 10:30." 

"What else can you tell us about this caller?" 

"He was male. I can't really give you any more details about his voice because it sounded muffled. The call was extremely short and all he gave me was the name and that you were covering something up." 

Simon pointed to Rafe. "Call Judge Kurtz. Get a warrant for Ms. Hawthorne's phone logs." 

"What?! You can't do that! Some of those calls are sensitive contacts!" 

"One of those contacts happens to be connected to the most violent criminal I've ever seen. And I'm giving you this warning in front of your lawyer. If we get nothing substantial from the phone logs, I'll file a warrant to have your phone tapped. Whoever this man is, he's not spending another day on my streets if I can help it. And secondly, if you get in the way of this investigation in any way, shape or form, and another person is killed by this man, I can assure you that I'll have the nearest judge hold you in contempt of court, and then I'll announce to the general public that Cascade's anti-crime media darling is in contact with the suspect and not assisting the police." Simon focused his gaze on her attorney. "I'm sure the victims' families would then know to direct their civil suits against your television show." 

Immediately, the nine-figure civil suits flashed in her attorney's mind. His hand shot out between Simon and Wendy and he said, "On behalf of KCWA Television, I can assure you that your department will have the network's full cooperation." 

Simon had to repress a smile before replying to the attorney, "I'll be in touch with you this afternoon concerning the phone taps. Your client is free to go for now. If you receive any contact from this 'source,' you will call our department immediately. You can see the desk sergeant to pick up your camera equipment." 

As the crew left, Wendy twisted her elbow out of her attorney's reach, anger flushing her cheeks bright red. Once the door was closed, Simon turned to Rafe and Blair. "Well, that was a distraction we didn't need." 

"I'm not so sure," Rafe replied as he closed his notepad. "We at least know the killer knew the victim. He called him by his name." 

Blair interjected, "What if he read the name from his driver's license or student ID?" 

Rafe opened the file they had amassed so far. "The name on both was Bartholomew." 

"Bartholomew?" Blair wrinkled his eyebrows. "I didn't know his name was Bartholomew. We always called him Barry." 

"Do you blame him?" Rafe asked. "If I was named Bartholomew, I'd go with Barry, too." 

"So that means Barry knew the killer, or at least the killer knew Barry. Or knew of him." 

Dan's initial forensics report came to Rafe's desk some time after lunch. The dark-haired detective read the details, then, rubbing his eyes, he handed it to Blair. From across the room, Jim tunneled his vision to catch Blair's reactions to it. He could sense the man's body temperature rise. He could spot the beads of sweat rising across his forehead. He heard Blair swallow as his eyes moistened, then he tossed the file down and burst from the room. 

"Hey, Hairboy," Rafe called out after him, "you okay?" Rafe chased after him into the restroom. 

Casually, Jim crossed the bullpen and picked up the files. The gory details were all captured. The number of small cuts and lacerations. The major incision which began with a deep cut into the victim's navel, then ascending into the rib cage. The massive tearing of connective tissues between his internal organs suggested that he had been forcibly disemboweled by hand. And, indications were that the victim had been alive during this entire torture, dying eventually from loss of blood. That made Jim close his eyes as the vision of Parvin's final moments \-- the mediaeval agony, the fear, the inescapable understanding that he was past the point of salvation. Once he was in control of his reactions, Jim scanned the report again, looking for one vital detail. 

At that moment, Rafe entered the bullpen and sat behind his desk. "Is that the Parvin report?" 

"Yeah." 

"I'm on it," Rafe said, his tone of voice uninflected, but Jim could still taste the subtle possessiveness. 

Jim's initial reaction was to growl, but he held back. "I understand. But Banks told me to be at your disposal. Figured the best way to stay out of your hair was to keep up with the reports so I'm not bugging you with questions." He started to walk away from Rafe's desk when he stopped to ask, "Anything come up with that reporter?" 

"No. Nothing. The phone call was traced to a pay phone at the university. We've got her phone tapped for now." 

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blair return from the bathroom. He dropped the file and slipped out to catch him. 

"Hey, Chief?" 

Sandburg glanced up but didn't say anything. 

"I need to tell you something." 

The look of apprehension in his dark blue eyes shocked Jim. /He thinks I'm talking about the note./ That caused a wave a pain to roll through Jim's chest -- he had been avoiding his feelings all day, and Parvin's bloody death had helped. But now, seeing how afraid Blair was that he would bring up the topic of their feelings blindsided him and he wanted to fall. 

"Jim?" 

He steadied himself. "No, it isn't about that. It's about Parvin." 

Blair immediately blushed, but he tried to cover for it. "What about Barry?" 

"Look, Simon's asked me to help, but . . . I don't know how to do this with Rafe around. There's something I picked up at the scene, and it's not on the forensics report." 

"What?" 

Jim checked to see if anyone else in the hallway could hear him. "I smelled semen. I great deal of it. But it's not on the report. They didn't find anything on the victim's body or in the warehouse. Not a single shred of evidence about the killer." 

"So the killer's definitely a man." Then Blair began to ramble, "But that only stands to reason. Almost all violent crimes of this nature are done by men. Plus Wendy said her contact this morning was a man." "But there's more. The killer gets off on this. And with Parvin being a guy--" 

"The killer's gay. Is that what you're saying?" His tone of voice was rhetorical. 

Jim shook his head. "No, no. You're right. I shouldn't jump to that conclusion. We just have one victim and he might have done this to other people." Jim thought for a moment before he asked, "Was Parvin gay?" 

"Yes. Yes, he was." 

"What about the other two missing students?" 

"That I don't know." 

"But they were both men, right?" 

"Yes . . . But we're still assuming that those guys are even dead. They may have just run off somewhere." Blair stared off into space, thinking. "I'll . . . try to come up with a way of getting this across to Rafe. . . . Just let me think about it some more." 

As they both turned to walk back into the bullpen, Jim heard his name being called out. "Hey, Ellison." Jim looked up to spot Bill Oates, a psychiatrist and old Army buddy, and the station's primary psychiatric consultant. The detective held out his hand to shake his friend's, then slapped him on the back. Almost two years ago, Jim had come to this man to ask him about troubling dreams about Blair -- a conversation that had been the impetus for a very long journey. 

"What brings you up here?" 

"Hear there's a nasty case with a college student. Simon called me on it." 

"Rafe's working on the case." 

Oates only nodded, then he glanced around Jim at Blair. "Is this your partner?" 

"Yes." He stepped back. "Bill, this is Blair Sandburg. Chief, this is Bill Oates." 

"Nice to finally meet you," Bill said. "Jim's told me good things about you." ========= 

At the end of the day, Blair opened his apartment door and slipped in quietly. He let his shoulder droop slightly, and his backpack slid to the floor with a thump. Just as he pulled his arms free from his coat, Collin barreled out of the kitchen, swinging him around. "Perfect timing, as always!" he shouted gleefully, his face beaming. "Ian just popped a bottle of champagne." Ian materialized at his side, offering him a glass. 

"What's this?" 

"Cordon Negra," Collin answered. "Okay, okay, so it's not the best, but it was cheap and I had to have it." 

"No," Blair asked, his voice tired and monotone, "I mean, what's the occasion?" 

"I heard back from the review board. Everything's finished and accepted! I'm a doctor!!" 

Blair stared at his friend for a while, smiling slightly. "That's great, Col." He moved past both of them without taking the champagne. 

Collin's auburn eyebrow arched. "What the hell's wrong with you?" His tone was a little sharp. 

Blair turned to face him, expressionless. "We found Barry Parvin today." 

"Found? Where was he?" 

"He was mutilated." 

Collin swallowed hard as he heard the last word. "Barry?" 

Walking away from Collin and Ian, Blair collapsed on the sofa, his hand covering his eyes. "It was horrible." 

Standing motionless for a while, Collin stared at the honey-colored drink in his hands, at the festive bubbles rising to the top. Thoughts and emotions swirled in conflict before he handed his glass to Ian. Without a word, he slipped down the hall and into his bedroom. 

Ian frowned, then set both glasses on the bar separating the kitchen from the den. Brushing the shock of hair from his face, he followed Collin into his bedroom and sat down beside him. "Did you know him?" 

Collin shrugged. "Not well." He sighed, then continued, his voice monotone. "Besides, that's not the point. I mean, for so long, I've had nothing good happen in my life. It's just been one thing after another. And now--" Collin threw up his hands. "I've worked so damn hard to get my Ph.D., and . . . how the hell am I supposed to enjoy it now, huh? And, and, and I'm just the worst human being on this whole fucking planet because someone I know is dead and the only thing I can think about is how it's put a damper on my life, and Jesus, that just makes me feel even worse." Collin leaned his elbows against his knees. 

Smiling with tight lips, Ian rubbed Collin's back. He chose not to think about Collin's comment about nothing good happening in his life, and its implied judgements against himself. "That's just human nature, love. No need to haul yourself over the bloody coals. Truth is, I'm proud of you. You've done something amazing. I'm . . . I'm sorry you feel bad. Come on." Ian stood, then held out his hand. "I have two salmon steaks at home, some fresh dill and fennel, and several bottles of Merlot. Let's go have a quiet evening at home. Then some time later, we'll bloody well have a celebration somewhere when all this passes over and we'll invite tons of people." 

Collin took Ian's hand, rubbing his thumb across his lover's smooth knuckles. With a twist of his chin, he looked up into Ian's dark eyes and smiled a closed-mouth smile. "I guess." He rose slowly. "Let me check on Blair, first." 

Once back in the living room, Collin sat down next to his roommate. "You okay, man?" 

Blair leaned forward. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little unnerved." He patted Collin on the knee. "Congrats on the review board. I hope I can do that some day." 

"You will. I have no doubt." There was a pause in their conversation, then Collin finally asked, "What happened to Barry?" 

"You don't want to know. I'm a little surprised I didn't lose it at the scene. I guess it was just so much I couldn't believe it. Like it was out of a horror movie or something." 

"Blair, are you sure you're cut out for this kind of work?" 

Blair huffed a short laugh. "No, not after today." 

"You okay tonight? By yourself?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'll just grab a beer, read a book. Take my mind off of it." He lifted himself from the plush sofa and walked into the kitchen, patting Ian's flat stomach as he went by. 

* * *

Before he pushed the key into the lock, Jim stared at the paint on the door. He could detail the cracks, like mud in a dry creek bed, and it struck him as odd that in a city where water was everywhere, his home should be marked by drought. /Is this what it feels like to wait for rain? To wake up every morning and hope for clouds and see nothing but blue?/ With a sigh, he knocked his forehead against the door while his arms hung loosely at his side. The bloody vision of a young man slaughtered for the hungry pleasure of another had stripped his spirit away, and Jim felt nothing except for a dull sadness that seemed to taint everything. His muscles felt almost sore as he forced the brassy key into the lock, hearing the tumblers click and rattle. 

This time, after he dropped his key in the basket and slung his gun over the hook, Jim stalked towards his sofa and collapsed on the cushions. In the darkness, he didn't even want to bother with a beer. He just wanted to wallow in the ink of the room. The shadows cloaked him with their weightless arms, drawing out his own depression and nothingness. 

Blair had completely dismissed his note out of hand. As though it wasn't even worth his time. As though it had bothered him, annoyed him, and he didn't want to deal with it. Blair's reaction had shamed Jim. He felt humiliated and belittled -- the everyday bother of a man who wanted nothing to do with him. Jim felt like a nerd and a fool, and in the dark, his face colored slightly. He wanted to take it all back. He wanted to go back in time to prevent himself from ever driving over to Blair's apartment, for trying to slip that poem under the door, for letting Collin talk him into handing that note over to him. 

For a brief flash of a moment, Jim thought, /What if Collin didn't give him the note?/ Then, just as suddenly, he realized that Blair had said today that he had received it. The spark of elation quickly faded and Jim again let his muscles slump against the cushions. 

No. It was over. Blair had spoken. And although Jim knew he needed to purge himself of this sadness, the red image of Barry Parvin and his inner flesh dangling like ribbons at a gruesome fair robbed him of all emotion except defeat and dislocation. 

* * *

Blair didn't get much sleep that night. Dreams stole into his mind, charming him like sirens with their pleasant visions with purple, blue and green. He imagined old friends, times with his mother when she and her cronies would build a fire in the southern California night south of San Diego and start a drumming circle on the beach, or just nights by himself when he would lie on his back in the quadrangle and listen to the loving whispers of couples as they walked past in the dark. He would drop his guard, when suddenly a hand would grab him -- some dark silhouette of anger would thrust him into a red, orange and yellow hell of wet body parts and the agony of a young man he was only beginning to know. Each time, Blair would rouse himself, then flop to the other pillow in hopes that from that part of the mattress, the dreams would be better. 

Only they weren't. They were just as disturbed. And if they weren't vibrant images, they were chanting thoughts -- ideas and suggestions and an ever present anxiety -- that haunted him with their raucous chatter. When the morning sun finally brightened his room, Blair sighed with defeat, then pulled himself out of bed. /No sense fighting it any more./ He showered and shaved and shuffled his way back to his jumbled office at Rainier. 

Around ten o'clock, his phone rang. Halfway expecting it to be Rafe, he picked up the phone with a sense of loss. "Blair Sandburg." 

"Hey, Blair," Collin's southern accent came across the line, "it's me." 

"Yeah, what's up?" 

"You slipped out this morning before I had a chance to talk to you. You going to be in your office for a little while?" 

"Yeah. I'm not going to the station until after lunch." 

"Okay. I'll be right over." 

Collin didn't give Blair a chance to comment, hanging up quickly. Blair just rolled his eyes, then sorted the essays in his lap. He had avoided grading these freshmen term papers for days now, and his students had already begun to harass him about it. He had read three of them -- the last one being so bad that he threw his head back and closed his eyes, wondering how in the world he was ever going to comment on something so poorly put together. The knock on his door sounded like a savior's call. 

Glancing up, he recognized Carl, the janitor. Blair crossed his arms as he sat back in his chair, letting the old wood creak around his seat. Carl always amazed Blair. He was Blair's age, still young and vital, with black hair, boyish hazel eyes and an ivory colored skin that never seemed to tan. The way his face was shaped reminded him of a taller, thinner George Stephanopolus, and Carl had joked that it was his Mediterranean heritage. What amazed Blair most was why a man like Carl chose to be a janitor. 

"What are you doing here during the day?" Carl commented as he leaned his lithe frame against the doorway. "Shouldn't you be in your coffin?" 

"Couldn't sleep. That pine box is like so hard." 

Carl lifted his finger and darted away for a moment. When he returned, he carried a huge book in his hands. "You need to read this, then." Blair took the book from his hands and read the title. The Phenomenology of the Aesthetic Experience by Mikel Dufrenne. "It's been putting me to sleep every night. I picked it up thinking it might add to what Wolfgang Iser has to say on the projection of the self into the character of the hero when reading text, but so far I'm bogged down by his theories on how the subjective mind deals with the objective when it relates to sculpture." 

Blair shook his head. "This is so not my realm." 

"Nah, didn't think it was," Carl said as he took the book back. "But I can tell he's on the right track. Like right here," Carl flipped the pages of the black paperback book until he could point to a footnote. "Here he says a novel doesn't exist until someone reads it. It doesn't _exist,_ man. It's like a thing of paper until someone comes along, and then the _process_ of reading it turns it into a novel, makes it real. He's on the right path. I keep thinking he'll get there." 

"Carl, why aren't you in grad school?" 

"Grad school? Why the hell would I want to put up with that shit? If I'm going to be cleaning up after someone else's shit, it might as well be the real thing, right? Besides, I just have to come in to work in the morning to make sure you little twits haven't wasted all your toilet paper, then I have to empty the trash and mop the floors when you little cretins leave. The rest of the time I get to sit in my office and read and wait for one of you to spill something. And," he pointed to Blair, "I make three times what you make." 

A second knock on the door sounded. 

"Come in." 

Collin stepped through the doorway and said, "Hey, Blair, I want you to meet somebody." He stood aside and let the handsome Native American enter Blair's office. Blair tried not to let the sense of wonder show on his face as he scanned the stranger. His black hair shimmered in the fluorescent light, shifting across his muscular body. The silver rings on his fingers sparkled, and as he held out his hand, the cuff of his light-brown leather duster moved back, revealing numerous bands surrounding one very wide brown strip. Blair stared into his black eyes and saw the boyish innocence. "Blair, this is Nic Bekaye. He's representing the Native American Prep School in Sante Fe. He was looking to speak with someone other than Dr. Morely." At the sound of his colleague's name, Blair groaned before holding out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Nic. I'm Blair Sandburg." 

Then Collin saw his chance to speak to Carl. "Carl. What are you up to?" He spotted the book and rolled his eyes, "You aren't trying to get Blair to buy into all that phenomenology mumbo jumbo are you?" 

"He said he needed something to put him to sleep," Carl replied. 

"Well, that will do it. Why aren't you reading that Cleanth Brooks book I gave you?" 

Carl shoved the thick tome under his arm and he replied dryly, "That New Criticism is old criticism, dude. Get with the times. Just 'cause he's Southern doesn't make him God." Walking past Nic, he winked at him with a wicked smile. "Blair," he began with a surreptitious flick of the head to Nic, "don't be getting into any trouble, you hear?" 

Blair snatched up a pencil and flung it at the janitor as he slipped through the door. "Get your existential ass out of here." With Carl gone, the room became suddenly quiet. Nic stood there, very still, his eyes switching back and forth between Collin and Blair, waiting for one of them to speak. He seemed uncomfortable in the silence, like a child who wanted to be noticed, and Blair could sense in himself the old paternal instincts to guide and instruct. "Excuse us, there," Blair began. "Carl and I tease each other all the time." 

Nic only smiled slightly, but his eyes were intensely warm and congenial. 

Collin's voice broke the tension. "Blair's my roommate." 

"Oh?" Nic asked. 

"Not that kind of roommate," Collin added. 

"I see," Nic replied, smiling awkwardly at Blair. Something inside the anthropologist told him that he should send a warning message to this handsome stranger. That even though something in his body felt drawn to the slim waist and broad shoulders of this long-haired beauty, that his heart and mind feared any interaction with anyone right now. But Blair found himself taken off-guard by Nic's comfortable body language and how Nic seemed to trust himself instantly around Blair. It was endearing, and Blair didn't want to chill this man's grin in any way. 

"Well, Nic, I'm sure you can give Blair the same spiel you gave me yesterday. I'll let you two introduce yourselves more." He shut the door behind him, but before it closed completely, he called out, "See you at home, Blair!" 

Abruptly alone together, both men rocked slightly on their feet, and Nic shoved his hands into his coat pockets, suddenly uncomfortable. Deep inside him, Blair felt the first few fingers of brotherly protectiveness move through his chest. Nic had changed from the smiling, trusting man to one suddenly bashful and shy. 

"So," Blair began, "what can I help you with?" 

Nic's dark eyes brightened, and he explained to Blair what he had been charged to do for the prep school. With an excitement that Blair shared for anthropology, the designer outlined the course work he had already mapped and detailed his vision for the educational program. His mind leapt from subject to subject -- social studies to physical education to literature -- and just when Blair had begun to suspect that Nic was perhaps a little undisciplined, the designer would bring all his babbling thoughts together into a concise explanation that synthesized all his previous statements before he bowled into the next idea. 

"Well, so, what can I do?" 

"You see," Nic began, "most history texts are too Eurocentric, but what I've found is that if our instructors want to teach Native American history, they have to turn to anthropology texts instead. Unfortunately, that's about as far as I can go." His shoulders sagged with a disarming defeat that made Blair instantly smile. "I don't know how to go about suggesting text or even working on course work, for that matter." 

"You're in luck," Blair said as he rose from his chair. "I'm constantly getting free textbooks in the mail. Instructors' copies and that kind of stuff. I can suggest some titles and let you take them home with you." Blair plopped down on the floor and began pulling textbooks from the lowest shelf. Nic joined him on the cold floor, sitting cross legged. As he bent his head to read the opened books, his long black hair fell like a curtain. Together, they remained on the floor for most of the morning as Blair continued to hand him books until Nic had several stacks surrounding him. He insisted on writing the titles down in his small notebook, rather than accept Blair's offer of taking the books. 

"And this book is pretty neat. It's just out. It's about the latest finds on the Hopi culture. According to this guy, the Hopi practiced cannibalism based on cut marks found on human bones." 

Nic closed his eyes, but with his head held down and his long hair draped, Blair didn't notice the reaction. 

"So what tribe are you from?" 

Nic glanced up at him, and there was something about his eyes that had changed -- a slight sense of apprehension appeared there. "Hopi," he answered. 

"Wow, the Hopi! Did you grow up on a reservation?" 

"No." 

"Really? Was any of your family on the reservation?" 

"My grandmother." 

"Neat! What clan are you from?" 

"I . . . I don't know." 

"You don't know?" There was a trace of disbelief in Blair's tone. 

Then Nic's eyes again changed, the apprehension fading with a frustrated sigh. The redolent humor seemed to seep out of his dark eyes, replaced by something like sadness and disappointment. He refrained from rolling his eyes, but looking up suddenly, Nic stared at Blair for a second as if he had just lost some kind of personal bet. Then he frowned, more to himself than anyone else, and he concentrated on his notebook. 

"Why? Didn't anyone ever say?" 

"Look, Blair," Nic began, his voice suddenly on edge, "I didn't grow up on a reservation, okay? I grew up in a suburb of Phoenix. With a school full of white kids and some Hispanics and I was the weirdest freak among them. Do you have any idea what it's like to grow up on the playground as the Indian with a yard full of cowboys? Or to sit in an American history class with all your classmates looking back at you when they talk about the French and Indian wars?" 

"So you were never interested in your heritage?" 

"Blair, I'm sorry. I appreciate your interest in our . . . culture, but you see, I . . . this kind of conversation never goes where it should. It always ends up with one of you Europeans making some gross generalization or objectification of me and who I'm supposed to be and I just don't need it, okay? All my life I've felt like I've been a goldfish in a bowl so you people could tap your fingers on the glass." He held up his hand. "No, I'm sorry. That's too harsh. You didn't mean it that way and I'm sorry." He deliberately slid his ballpoint pen into the wire spirals of his notepad. "You're curious and you want to know and I guess I'm just overly sensitive. Forget I said anything." 

Blair leaned back on the floor, his mouth wide open in surprise and a great deal of shame. He searched for something to say. "Nic . . . I . . ." 

"No, forget about it. I'm bothering you as it is. You have work to do." He stood up from the floor, leaving a circle of books in his wake. "Thanks, though. I really appreciate all the help and time you've given me." 

"Wait. Wait, Nic, wait. I didn't mean to--" 

Nic waved his hand and smiled gently. "I know. You guys never do. I swear, it's not you, Blair. You're a great guy . . . it's just that . . . all my life I've wanted to be like the rest of the world, and no matter how hard you try to get out of your bubble, you realize that every other human being thinks you're different. I didn't take this job because of who I am. I took it because it was the only one I could get, okay?" He drew his eyes down to the floor. "Sometimes you just want the world to forget who you are." 

He closed the door behind him, leaving Blair in a well of silence. "Jeez, I didn't mean it," Blair protested to himself. He sat on the floor for several minutes, dissecting the conversation, trying to find that silver line when he and Nic had turned from being jovial academics so relaxed and cheerful to suddenly distant and hurt. When the phone rang, Blair could only stare at its square boxy shape before he rose from the floor. 

"Blair Sandburg." 

"Hairboy, it's Rafe." 

"Yeah, man?" 

"I need you here when you get a chance." 

"You didn't find another body, did you?" 

"No, no. Nothing like that. The mayor of all people just put a new profiler on the case, and I want you to be here when she shows up." 

"All right, all right. I'll be there in a sec." 

* * *

Blair slumped into the chair by Rafe's desk and stared at the floor, trying to let the shaky feeling out of his lungs. With his eyes closed, he practiced the same breathing technique he had taught Jim. He silently intoned the Hindi "ohm" -- knowing that the sound was important but needing one thought at least to focus his mind and silence all the other competing impulses. 

The weight of a warm hand on his shoulder jarred his concentration. "Here you go, Chief." 

Blair opened his eyes and saw Jim handing him a cup of coffee. "Oh. Thanks." 

"You doing okay? You look pretty tired." 

"Didn't get any sleep." 

"I figured you didn't. I was just a little worried." 

"Look, Jim," Blair felt his frustration snap out of his control as he set the coffee on Rafe's desk, "it's not your place to worry about me any more." 

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. And like an archer regretting his arrow, Blair watched helplessly as those words flew across the air and cut into Jim. Those ice blue eyes suddenly blinked, and the corners began to droop with defeat. Jim started to say something, but he stopped himself, shaking his head as his shoulders sagged. Without another word, he slunk out of the bullpen and down the hall. 

/Shit./ Blair dropped his face in his hands. /I'm a walking nightmare today./ Picking up his head finally, Blair caught sight of the shockingly white Styrofoam cup of coffee Jim had just handed him. Jim was only trying to be nice, and despite the way Blair had handled, or rather, mishandled Jim's poetic overture, his behavior had remained supportive and protective. The way Blair remembered Jim being in those early months of their partnership. Now that white cup glared at him like a judgment. With an angry sigh, Blair reached for the coffee. 

Just as he gripped it, he felt a strong slap on his shoulder. "Hey, Hairboy, I want --" 

Coffee sloshed over the white rim and down his hand. Jumping up from his seat, Blair pushed the cup away from him, awkwardly avoiding the spill. 

"Oh, man, I'm sorry," Rafe fumbled with his words while his body gracefully edged the side of the desk and snatched up his suit jacket. Instantly he returned with a white linen handkerchief which he handed to Blair. "I'm sorry, there, Blair. I didn't see you holding that. I'm way sorry." 

"Relax, man. It's just part of my karma for today." He wiped the handkerchief around each finger, soaking up the black coffee. 

"Uhm, Blair, I want you to meet Dr. Kelly Simms." Blair turned to face the young woman. She stood only a few inches shorter than Blair, and her light brown hair had been cut short to frame her oval-shaped face. Soft, almost pastel green eyes sparked with a fierce intelligence, but she did not smile. "Dr. Simms, this is Blair Sandburg. He's a consultant with the department." 

Blair held out his hand. "Observer," he corrected, "not consultant." 

Dr. Simms glanced down at his hand. 

Suddenly, Blair realized why she wasn't reaching out to shake his offered hand. "Oh." He rubbed his still wet fingers on Rafe's handkerchief. "A raincheck on the handshake then." 

"So what do you observe?" she asked. 

"Oh, that. Well, you see, I'm writing my dissertation on closed societies \--" 

"Your dissertation?" 

"Yes. I'm an anthropologist." 

Rafe interrupted. "Sandburg's been working with this department for several years. For the most part, he is a member of Major Crimes." 

"Oh, I see." 

"He also teaches at Rainier, which is why he's on this case." 

"I see. Can I examine the case files now?" 

"What happened to Dr. Oates?" Blair asked. 

Taking the files from Rafe, Dr. Simms answered coldly, "He's been replaced. Do you have an open conference room?" she directed her question to Rafe as if Blair didn't exist. 

"Yes, we do. We've already set up most of the case file information on boards in Conference Room D." 

"And that would be which room?" 

"The one down this hall," Rafe pointed, "on the left hand side." 

"Thank you. I'll start working on the profile now." 

As she left, Blair almost growled to Rafe, "Oh. I see." 

* * *

Collin opened their refrigerator and without looking, passed a beer behind his back to Blair. "Do I look that bad?" Blair asked as he took the beer from Collin's hand. Straightening his spine, his own beer already in hand, Collin only shrugged his shoulders. 

"You looked like you could use one." He twisted off the cap with a hiss. 

"Yep. And you'd be right." 

"How'd your day go?" 

"Can't really tell," Blair said with a fake smile before tipping up the bottle for his first swallow. "Maybe it was going into the station today and hurting Jim's feelings for the umpteenth time. Maybe it was this new bitch who's working on Barry Parvin's case. Or hell, maybe it was this morning when I hurt Nic's feelings. Jeez who the hell knows?" 

"Nic? What did you say to Nic?" 

"Hell if I know. I started talking about the latest finds on Hopi cannibalism and he got really sensitive." 

"Let me get this straight. You brought up the controversy of his ancestors eating each other and you didn't stop to think that he might not take it that well?" Collin drank from his beer, his green eyes glittering. 

Shaking his head, Blair slipped out of their kitchen and into the den. "No, get this . . . I don't think he really gave a damn about cannibalism \-- he was just more concerned about me thinking of him as a Native American." He drank deeply from the bottle. "I so can't figure that guy out." 

"What's to figure out?" Collin asked as he followed him to the sofa. 

"What's he really up to? I mean, he certainly doesn't need my help." 

"I think that's obvious. He's in a new town. He's gay. He's obviously highly intelligent. He wants to meet some nice guys before he goes back to New Mexico, and he has an excuse, albeit lame, to seek out the other gay professors." 

Blair shook his head. "Well, he doesn't count me as one of them now." 

"Don't wear yourself down. The past few months have been rough. Use it as an excuse and keep going." 

"I guess you're right." 

"Hey Blair, when was the last time we went dancing?" 

"Dancing? Like where did that come from?" Blair glanced up at the ceiling with a somewhat exhausted expression. "I don't know. It's been a while." 

"I think we should go. Work out some of this frustration. See and be seen." 

"I don't know if I'm up to it." 

"Oh, come on. That's not the Blair Sandburg of legend." 

Blair shifted from the sofa and stepped back into the kitchen to make dinner. "Well, the Blair Sandburg of legend has retired." 

"Can I coax him out for a cameo appearance?" "I'm sorry, Collin. I know you want to go. But this case . . . and Didion and Bass . . ." 

"And Jim?" 

"Yes, and Jim. Today has just sucked, man, and I think I want to hide." 

"Well, that's not what you need to do. You need to get out and about, let a little social contact revive the old Sandburg Over-Confidence Factor." 

Blair smirked but continued to shake his head. 

"No, come on, Blair. At least let's just go and have a drink or something. Watch some young nubile bodies writhing on the dance floor." Collin wiggled his chest as if he had breasts. 

"If that's what you want, what's stopping us from going to a strip joint?" 

"Okay by me," Collin grinned, "I'm game." He shook his hips instead. "I think I have some one dollar bills lying around somewhere." 

"No." Blair emphasized as he poured water into a pot to boil some pasta. 

"Oh, come on, Blair. Please? We won't stay for long. I just have to get out of this damn apartment! I just have to see something different besides this apartment, school and Ian's place. Please?" 

Blair rolled his eyes. 

"Please?" 

"Collin." 

Collin grabbed him by the hips and tried to make him dance. "Please!" he begged. 

"Okay, fine." 

* * *

Blair first noticed the throbbing on his skin before his ears registered the loud, pulsing techno music. There was a time, before the no-smoking laws had cleared the air, that the dance club would have been dense with smoke. Now the flashing of the red and blue lights seemed harsher without the haze to filter it. For a weeknight, the club was not as packed as Blair had seen it before, but the floor was still crowded with young men milling around the bar or writhing on the dance floor. "Hey Collin?" Blair shouted. 

"Yeah?" 

"Tell me again why we're here?" 

"To have fun." 

"Yeah. Fun." Blair wiggled a finger in his ear. "I'm going to have clubitis in the morning." 

Turning on him with his hands on his hips, Collin shot back, "You are such an old man." 

"Me?" Blair pointed to his chest. "An old man? You are three years older than I am and don't you forget it." 

With a wave of his hand, Collin replied, "I should have never shown you my driver's license. Come on. Let's at least get a drink." Collin shouldered his way through the crowd, his confident hands gently moving men aside, flashing them a genteel smile as he did. Blair followed after him, offering up polite, single-motion waves to excuse himself, trying not to notice how some of the men stared at him hungrily. Once at the bar, Collin asked over his shoulder, "What'll you have?" 

"Just get me a beer." 

"Beer it is." 

Suddenly Blair felt slim arms wrapped around him and a squeal. "Blair! Oh my god, I haven't seen you in ages!" Turning, Blair recognized the slender young man with long, white-blond hair. Had Blair not known him better, he would have pegged him for a southern California surfer boy, with his straight blond hair hanging in lines down his tanned face to his shoulders. Soft blue eyes twinkled with his genuine smile. 

"Miller," Blair said as he embraced his friend. "It's been a long time. How are you?" 

"Fabulous as always." Then Miller spotted Collin as he turned away from the bar with his cocktail and Blair's beer. 

"Here you are," Collin said as he handed his roommate the brown bottle. 

"Collin!" Miller screamed. 

Collin stared at Miller with a wide-eyed expresson of mock surprise before shouting back, "Miller!" Both men hugged, trying not to splash each other with their cocktails. "What have you been up to?" 

"No good, darling. No good." 

With a wicked wink of his green eyes, Collin teased, "My, but aren't we a little femme tonight?" 

"Going down on a guy will do that to you." Miller sipped his vodka tonic through the tiny red straw, then said with his hand on Blair's elbow, "You guys picked a great night to come out. You should see this man out on the dance floor." 

"Dance floor?" Blair remarked. "Are you on the prowl already?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"I thought you were dating David Black." 

"As if!" Miller snapped his finger in the air. "Can you believe someone's going around saying that about me?" 

"Why yes," Collin added dryly with a sip of his drink, "I believe I was in the room when I started that rumor." 

Miller paused for a moment, piecing together Collin's comment before he finally glared and whispered, "Bitch." 

Collin pinched him on the cheek like an elderly aunt and smiled. "You know you love me." 

"In your dreams!" 

With a wink and a grin, Collin asked, "So where's this stud you're gushing about?" Miller looped his arm with Collin's and dragged him through the crowd. Blair followed half-heartedly, dodging his way left, then right around other people, smiling politely as he did. He noticed Miller stop and point into the crowd, then saw Collin's spine snap straight. With slow movements, Collin turned his head, his eyes circle-wide and shocked. 

"Blair?" 

"Yes?" He came closer. 

Collin could only point to the dance floor. 

There, in the center, danced a tall figure, wearing only his jeans and boots, leather bracelets dangling on his wrists. His smooth copper chest bulged with muscles that Blair had only guessed at -- rounded, sculpted pectorals, a tight, ribbed abdomen, muscled shoulders curving and bulging. His long hair was pinned into a pony tail, but it whipped from side to side as Nic whirled to the techno music. His eyes were mere slits, lost in the primal beat of the music, his hard body shifting back and forth \-- his hips in one direction, his shoulders in another, creating a beautiful S-curve on the dance floor. For almost an entire minute, Blair stared at the body moving like a candle in a breeze before he took one last deep swallow of his beer. He handed the bottle to Collin but didn't say a thing. 

"Oh no," Collin whispered. 

Miller watched as Blair slipped out onto the dance floor. "Get out!" Then he broke into laughter. 

Once his feet hit the dance floor, Blair lifted both arms over his head, joining his hands together to make a long, thin flame of his body. He swayed gently and sensuously to the left, stopping when he heard a particular beat, then curling to the right, his flesh and soul immediately attuned to the music. Closing his blue eyes slightly, he allowed himself to by hypnotized by the throbbing sounds and the heat of the other dancers. Twisting like a serpent, Blair maneuvered through the crowded dance floor until he was dancing face to face with Nic. 

Instantly Nic knew he was there, and his eyes shot open as he took a step back, his body motionless. He clearly wasn't expecting him, and Blair had caught him completely off-guard. Undaunted, Blair came even closer, his open hand pressing against Nic's hard, sweating stomach. Blair leaned forward, his mouth moving towards Nic's. 

Still standing over the dance floor, Collin could only stare mesmerized, but he did whisper, "Holy shit." 

Hypnotized, Nic could only watch as Blair's face came within inches of his. Then he heard Blair's voice. 

"I'm sorry for what I said this morning. But I promise you, I'll never say anything like that to you again." Just as gracefully as he approached, Blair withdrew, a friendly smile on his lips. His message delivered, Blair let his eyes drift shut again and he focused on the rhythms of the music as it possessed his body, becoming the dance itself. 

Nic blinked once, then he smiled. Lifting his hands in the air and grinning wickedly, Nic began to dance in a negative image of Blair, copying his moves with a feline grace, following his lead at every turn. Blair had never seen anyone do that before, and he drew closer. He exaggerated his moves, stretching further, moving faster, but Nic never once faltered, twisting and curving like a mirror image, his dark eyes intoxicated. 

Above the dance floor, Miller leaned closer to whisper into Collin's ear. "Look's like Blair's back to his old self." He smirked into his cocktail. 

"Yes." Collin could only frown. "For better or worse." 

After dancing for almost twenty minutes together, Nic reached for Blair's hand and shouted over the noise. "I need a break." He guided Blair skillfully to the bar and ordered a beer for each of them. Nic leaned over the bar, his muscular flank catching the red and blue lights like painted shadows and Blair struggled to push down his attraction to this man. As the Native-American sat back on his barstool, Blair's blue eyes were drawn to his chest, to the strong definition of his round, perfectly smooth pecs, to the brown, quarter-sized nipples, to the ridged abdomen leading to a thin waist. When he felt the cold circle of a beer bottle pressed against the back of his hand, Blair nearly jumped, blushing when he saw Nic offering him the beer. A polite, suppressed grin decorated his reddish-brown face. 

"So do you come here often?" Blair asked, then immediately felt like an idiot for saying something so foolish. 

Nic laughed deeply, then shook his head. "Just found out about this place a few days ago. I like it." 

"What does your boyfriend think?" Blair threw out the question. 

"Boyfriend?" Nic stared at the neck of his beer bottle, peeling the label. "I don't have a boyfriend." 

"You're kidding." 

Nic shook his head. "Men either think of me as a boytoy, or the ones who do have some substance . . . I don't know. I want to say they start to resent me, but that just sounds conceited. I haven't figured out what's wrong with me." 

Just as Blair felt a certain possessive, nurturing need to provide some sort of odd salvation to this man's obvious and surprising lack of self-esteem, he felt an arm hug him around the waist. Turning quickly, he saw Collin there, close, a hint of warning in his green eyes. "Here's where you went off to." Then Collin cast his eyes towards Nic. "And if it isn't the erudite Mr. Bekaye. My . . . who knew you had a second career as a go-go boy?" 

Nic shot Blair a quick look, subtly shrugging his shoulders as if to say, 'See what I told you?' 

Suddenly, Miller's blond hair and tanned skin broke into the group. "Hi, I don't think we've been introduced," he said to Nic, extending his hand. "I'm Miller Williams. I'm a friend of Collin and Blair's." 

"Nic Bekaye." 

Collin leaned towards Miller. "Nic has his Ph.D. in Education." 

Miller's blue eyes glittered. "Oh really?" 

"Are you a grad student?" Nic asked. 

"Yes. In linguistics." Miller flashed him a blinding surfer-boy smile before asking, "Feel like getting back on that dance floor?" 

Nic drank from his beer before answering. "Sure." 

As they stepped away, Collin took Nic's seat at the bar. He tapped the rim of his cocktail against the neck of Blair's beer bottle and said, "You may hate me for it now, but consider yourself saved by the belle." 

Blair only rolled his eyes at his friend's gruesome pun. 

* * *

That Wednesday morning, Jim tried to force himself awake. The coffee wasn't helping. Neither was the activity in the bull pen. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jim wondered if he would ever get a decent night's sleep again. First had come Blair's early morning nightmares -- the blasted visions of black dogs tearing into his flesh while Jim panicked and ran -- then the threats that Didion had planted -- and finally, that ill-begotten night when Jim had thrown Blair out of the loft. He groaned when he thought of it. No amount of self-punishment, no attempts to repress and deny the tenacious memories would help. He carried that night around his stooped neck like a sinner's millstone. And ever since, he had stared up through the orange-tinted skylights as he lay in bed, trying to understand what had overtaken them both. 

He stared at his half-empty coffee cup. The coffee had stained brown rings around the white porcelain rim -- rings like those of an old tree, recording rainfall and drought and late night bookings and early morning paperwork. If he stared close enough, he could see so many details in the black and white reflection on the coffee's surface -- the white square fluorescent lights -- the black crosses that held the acoustic tiles in place on the ceiling -- even the speckled pattern of dots that decorated the tiles. 

Jim felt a strong hand jerk his shoulders. "Jim? Jim, you all right?" Then a whisper, "You aren't zoning on me, are you?" 

Looking up, Jim recognized Simon's tall figure bending down to touch him. 

"No sir. I'm fine." 

The captain pointed to the telephone, and it was only then that Jim realized it was ringing. 

"You going to answer that?" 

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Picking up the phone, he said, "Detective Ellison." 

"Jim, it's Ian." 

"Ian. Hey. How are you?" 

"I'm well." 

"You sure? Look, I'm sorry I haven't called you. To check on you after . . . that weekend. Things have been a little busy." 

"I understand. No need to worry, Jim. I'm doing fine. What about you? Any trouble with your senses?" "No. I'm doing all right." 

"Good." 

"Ian, there's nothing wrong is there?" 

"Oh no, nothing wrong. I simply called this morning to see what if you were coming over tonight?" 

"Tonight? What's happening tonight?" 

"Oh. I guess Blair didn't tell you. Collin was awarded his doctorate." 

Jim closed his eyes. Ian's words hurt him more than he had expected. Something so important as Collin's doctorate, and Blair hadn't told him. It signaled something dark and hard and impossible to ignore -- Blair had cut him out of his life. The rejection stung, and Jim didn't notice at first that Ian had begun speaking again. 

" . . . and we held off on doing anything because of his friend getting killed, but we thought a small get-together would be reasonable. I didn't know if Blair had said anything, but I know Collin would want you to be there." 

"I don't think so." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah. Blair and I . . . we still haven't . . ." 

"Oh. I understand." 

Jim sensed something change in Ian's voice, something that wasn't right. "Ian, are you sure everything's okay?" 

"Me. Oh, I'm fine." 

"I don't think so. Something's not right." 

Jim heard Ian sigh on the other end of the phone. After a few silent moments, the doctor finally said, "You'll think I'm a bloody fool." 

"I knew something was wrong." 

"Nothing's wrong, except I'm . . . hell . . ." He took a deep breath. "I'm afraid." 

Jim shook his head faintly, feeling the sympathy for his friend. 

"See. I'm a bloody idiot." 

"No you're not. You have every right to be scared." 

"It's just that . . . with all of Collin's friends coming over, I'd like to be able to relax a little. Drop my guard for a change. I don't . . . I don't think I can do that unless you're there." 

Jim couldn't hold back a soft, closed-mouthed smile. At least someone needed him. "What time's the party?" he asked. 

* * *

For a few moments, Jim regretted standing there in the hallway outside Ian's condo. Through the closed door he could hear all the people whom Ian or Collin had invited. And he could hear their conversations. William Carlos somebody. Something about a red wheel barrow. Jim rolled his eyes. /I'm way out of my element, here./ He took a deep breath and looked at the package in his hand. He had brought Collin a gift. He had gone to all that trouble to find something appropriate. /Jim, don't be a wimp. Do it. Get it over with./ 

As he raised his hand to knock on the door, he scanned the party for a certain heartbeat. Only the one he searched for wasn't there. 

He wasn't sure if what he felt was relief, or anxiety. 

Quickly he clamped down his emotions and rapped on the door. It opened almost immediately, and Jim didn't recognize the young man standing there. 

"Uhm, hey. Ian around?" 

"He's in the kitchen." 

As Jim passed the young man, he could clearly smell his pheromones, and he could feel the young man's grey eyes drilling into him. /Guess I still got it,/ Jim thought, and that made him smile slightly. He quickly crossed the room, noting how many people, mostly students, filled the living room and deck. The dining room table was loaded with gourmet food, and Jim assumed that Ian had cooked much of it. 

Ian had his back to Jim, pulling something out of the oven. The sentinel waited for the doctor to place the tray of stuffed mushrooms on the stove before he pressed his hand against the small of his back. Ian turned gracefully, then smiled as his elegant fingers pushed back the stubborn lock of black hair from his eyes. "Hey," he said softly, pulling the oven mitt from his right hand, "I'm glad you made it." He pulled Jim into a hug. "I've missed you, old friend." 

Uncertain of the move, the first time Ian had ever done that, Jim limply patted him on the back, then pulled away. He held up the gift bag in his hand. "Is Collin around?" 

"He's around here somewhere." 

"Did you make all this?" 

"Most of it. I don't get to do it often. Any excuse I can find." Then he shrugged. "And . . . I always cook when I'm nervous." 

"Thought so. One of the reasons I'm here. I knew you'd have good food." 

"Don't lie. That's not the only bloody reason you're here. Thank you for coming." Ian grinned, then out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Collin leaning against the bar. He reached out for his lover and tugged on the sleeve of his sweater. "Hey, Col, look who's here." 

Collin turned and his eyes grew wide. "Jim!" He quickly made his way around the bar and into the kitchen, giving Jim a hug as well. Prepared this time, Jim embraced him. As he did, Collin whispered into his ear, "I just heard from Blair. He's on his way." 

Jim felt his stomach cramp with nerves. 

As they pulled apart, Collin noticed the gift bag in Jim's hand. "What's this?" 

"Oh," Jim handed him the gift. "I got you something." "You didn't have to," Collin replied as he pulled the string loose on the top of the bag. His eyes narrowed as he pulled out the glass bottle. "Kentucky Bourbon?" 

"I wasn't sure what to get, so I went on the Internet this afternoon at work. Looked up Faulkner. Found a webpage that said he liked to drink bourbon. Couldn't find a bourbon from Mississippi, so I got that instead." 

Collin's face remained blank, and Jim suddenly grew nervous. 

"Did I get the wrong thing?" 

"Oh no, no, I just . . . don't know what to say." 

Ian leaned in close. "He's bloody speechless, Jim. Now's your chance." 

"No sex for you, tonight." Collin winked at his lover. "Jim, oh my god. This is so . . . thoughtful." 

"I have been known to think, Collin." 

"Oh, shut up and give me a hug, you big troglodyte." Collin squeezed him tightly, and Jim had to laugh. Again when he was close, Collin whispered, "Sure beats all the candlesticks and picture frames I got. Fags can be so unimaginative, sometimes. You did a good job." 

* * *

[Continued in 2/4](huntsmanwhat_a.html).

Link to text version: http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=drama6/huntsmanwhat_a.html 


	2. Chapter 2

This story has been split into four parts for easier loading.

## Huntsman, What Quarry, Part I

by Kadru

Author's webpage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Author's notes and disclaimer can be found in part one. 

* * *

Hunstman, What Quarry?, Part I - 2/4 

While Jim was still holding Collin close, a hearty smile on his face, the front door opened, and Blair slipped in. The anthropologist immediately saw the two of them in their embrace, and he felt something inside his chest grow warm. How long had it been since he had seen Jim so happy? He remembered days when the four of them had horsed around, before he and Jim had split up, and he felt something pull at him. A longing. A simple wish that things had not worked out the way they had. He stood there, staring, when Jim's eyes met his. The sentinel's expression changed slightly -- still warm, still happy, his need and desire for Blair so evident in his ice-blue eyes. He continued to hold Collin by the hips good-naturedly, so friendly and touching that Blair felt himself sighing at the thought of Jim being comfortable enough with Collin to do that. And standing next to Ian. The three of them. As they had been before September. Before Didion. Before Sebastian. 

Before Lee. 

Suddenly Blair felt a hand slip around his waist, pulling him close. He didn't need to look to see who it was -- he knew that it was Nic Bekaye. He had picked him up at the university and given him a ride to Collin's party. Even so, he instinctively turned slightly. 

When he did, a warm, seductive smile spread across Nic's face, his black eyes almost wicked but sweet. His arm around Blair was suddenly possessive, claiming, but in a charming, flattering way. Nic pulled his hands free, placing them behind his back as a boyish grin replaced his smile. "Sorry," he whispered. "Couldn't resist." 

Blair quickly turned back to look into the kitchen. The look on Jim's face chilled his soul. His mouth was slightly open, his blue eyes wide in shock. And slowly, Blair watched as his face turned from surprise to an infinite sadness that hurt Blair inside. Jim's hands fell from Collin's hips, and the Southerner pulled himself away, his green eyes burning with a quiet rage that Blair knew he'd have to answer to later. Ian's dark eyes were just as judgmental. 

As the two of them approached the kitchen, Nic grinning innocently, Blair's expression slightly guilty, Collin closed the distance. He linked arms with Nic's and pulled him from the kitchen. "Nic, so glad you could make it," Collin said with a genteel smile. "Let me introduce you to some friends of mine." 

Blair stood alone at the entrance to the kitchen. He wasn't sure what to say to Jim, but he could tell by the way Jim stared at him that the detective was clearly jarred by Nic's intimacy and obvious attraction. 

Ian tried to deflect some of the tension by opening the refrigerator and grabbing two beers. He twisted open the cap and handed one to Jim, then did the same for Blair. "Beer?" he asked, as he held the bottle out for Blair. 

"Yeah, sure." As Blair came closer to take the beer from Ian's hand, Jim slipped past him without saying a word, moving around the bar, through the living room, then out onto the deck. 

When he felt the cold beer bottle touch his palm, Blair felt something even colder in his heart. 

* * *

The night had been a long one, and Jim had spent most of it on the deck, feeling the cold air numb his body -- as numb as he wanted his heart to feel. Every so often, Collin or Ian would pull him from the deck, bring him inside to warm up a little, entice him with food he no longer wanted. But eventually Jim would see Blair in the crowd, and the attractive Native-American beside him, long black hair like a sheet draped over his muscular shoulders. 

What hurt worse than seeing Blair with another man was the genuine expression on that stranger's face. He seemed so friendly, so outgoing. Twice he had said something to Jim -- small talk, an invitation to friendliness \-- not realizing who he was. Jim had tried to ignore him. And Nic's warmth wasn't just directed at Blair. Nic seemed kind and pleasant to everyone, his eyes twinkling and his smile open and soft. /A nice guy . . . I want Blair to be with a nice guy. Someone . . . like that./ 

That realization, that what he had wanted for Blair all along -- to be happy, safe and loved -- was finally coming true, only without him, drove him into the cold every time. It seemed so goddamned unfair for fate to take him at his word, and yet deny him happiness in the same sweep. 

Jim could easily see out over the balcony and onto the Sound. The night was uncommonly clear, and he could see the moon reflected on the rippling water, several miles away. The smell of dampness pervaded the air, made it feel even colder. And all about him, the skyscrapers sparkled with halogen lights like a forest of square trees glittering with an electric dew. He wrapped his leather jacket tighter around him and felt tempted to fling his empty beer bottle over the edge, into the city, into the night, almost hoping it would hit someone who might then feel as bad as he did. 

The sound of footsteps behind him made him turn. 

Blair. Standing there, in the doorway, his hands in his pockets. The lights from Ian's condo radiated like a halo around his dark silouette. 

They stared at each other for a moment, the silence heavy as a velvet drape. 

Suddenly, Nic was beside Blair, nudging him with a beer. The anthropologist jerked with surprise. "Oh, thanks," he mumbled. 

"Sure thing," Nic said with a friendly grin. "Can I get you anything?" he asked Jim. 

Jim couldn't speak. He only shook his head. 

"Look, Nic, could you give me a moment?" 

Nic glanced over at Jim for a second, the sudden realization that he had stepped into an awkward moment very evident on his face. "Oh. Oh, okay. Sure. I'll be in here." 

After they were alone, Jim finally found his voice. "He . . . seems like a nice guy." 

"Nic? Yeah, he is." 

"I'm . . . happy for you." 

"Happy? Oh, no, we're just friends." 

Jim shrugged his shoulders, trying to act as casual as possible. "We all have to start somewhere." 

"No. We're not dating." 

"Look, Sandburg," Jim snapped. "It's okay if you are, all right?" 

Blair chose not to take the bait. Quietly he slipped closer to the railing, peering over the side at the city beneath him. He knew that he had already hurt Jim that past week when he had avoided dealing with Jim's note and his heart-felt poem. He didn't want to. He knew Jim still deeply loved him. But Blair also knew he wasn't feeling anything inside, except maybe some residual traces of anger. He stared out into the night, watching the red and white dots of cars stream along the distant interstate, and as he focused on their smooth electric movement, he realized something \-- that anger was the only emotion he felt comfortable expressing. Standing there beside Jim, Blair realized that his feelings hadn't disappeared. What had disappeared was his energy to deal with them, and instead he chose to ignore them, pretend that his heart wasn't crowded with rage, hurt pride, insecurity and there, so very small, something that made Blair suspect it was love. And Blair was still bothered that he had slept with Sebastian, even though at the time he didn't recall making a decision \-- it had just happened. Tonight, just like every night since Blair had felt the hot wave of heroin take over his body, whenever he tried to heft one of these emotions around, they just felt too heavy to move. He knew he had hurt Jim this week, slapped him down when he had come crawling back, and that added a new clunky object in hs heart -- deep guilt at hurting a man who wanted him. 

"I . . . I didn't know you were going to be here," Blair said finally to break the silence. 

"Ian invited me." 

/Oh. Ian. Well, that makes some sense./ Had Blair only known, he wouldn't have brought Nic in the first place. And he especially wouldn't have made it seem like the two of them were together. "Look, Jim, I'm not dating anyone. And . . . and I'm sorry if it looked like I am just now. I'm not. Nic is just a friend. Yeah, I can see it. He wants to ask me out. And he's tried, but I've said no." 

"Will you . . . always say no." 

Blair turned to stare at his sentinel. "What kind of question is that?" he asked defensively. 

"I . . . I don't know. I'm sorry I asked." 

Then Blair felt even more guilty. Jim was struggling to keep himself composed in this crowd. And truth was, Blair was a little impressed that he had even come. The Jim he had known several months ago would not have come without several days worth of badgering on Blair's part. 

Jim looked into the living room, his sad eyes alighting on Nic, and Blair felt even worse. He didn't want to hurt Jim. That much he knew. 

"I guess," Jim's voice came out hoarse. "I guess what I'm asking is . . . if I asked you out, you know, to dinner . . . or something . . . would you always say no?" 

The question stabbed Blair brutally in the chest with apprehension. He had avoided Jim's note. He had avoided Jim at the station and had even snapped at him a few times when he got too close. Dinner would mean conversation, and he knew Jim -- Jim wanted to talk about getting together -- and if Blair couldn't talk to himself about it, how could he talk to Jim? "I don't know, Jim--" 

"We used to go out . . . you know . . . before. Before we got together. When we were friends." 

Jim had him there. He knew they had to be friends, and regardless of what his heart was feeling, their working relationship was paramount to anything else. Blair sighed. "Okay." 

But Jim only heard the defeated sigh. He couldn't help but project all his fears on that heavy, patronizing sound -- how he imagined Blair was annoyed by Jim's emotions, by his overtures, and his attempts to reach out to him. "Okay, what?" he let his frustration spill into his question. 

And Blair reacted to Jim's terse tone of voice. "I said I'll go out with you." 

"Well, don't make it sound like a fucking chore, Sandburg." He turned to storm away. 

Blair caught his breath. /Shit!/ "Jim!" he called out to make him stop. "Wait, wait, wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to come out like that. That's not what I meant." 

Jim stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, his jaw clenching. Now he wasn't sure what to think. "Okay . . . Friday?" 

"What?" 

"Friday? Do you want to go out on Friday?" 

"I --" Blair started to say 'I guess' but corrected himself. "Yes. Friday." 

"Pick you up at seven?" Jim's voice still sounded on edge. 

"Seven's fine." 

"Good." Jim slipped out the doorway, through the thinning crowd, and out of the apartment without even saying goodbye to either Collin or Ian. 

* * *

For the rest of that evening, Blair's thoughts lay scattered across his mental wasteland. Every so often, the understanding dawned that he had accepted a date with Jim. /Dinner? What was I thinking? I should have made him agree to lunch instead. Man./ Then, when he tried to imagine a lunch with Jim instead of dinner, he wasn't any more comfortable with himself. Taking a deep cleansing breath, Blair knew that the where and when didn't matter -- what mattered was spending time alone with Jim. He wasn't prepared to do that because that required Blair finally dealing with the morass of conflicting emotions inside him and right now he just wanted to hide from all of that. 

And he knew he felt somewhat bullied and that irked him some. His ire caused him to consider ways to wiggle out of this new commitment. /Friday. What's happening on Friday? Maybe I can . . . / 

Then Blair really felt uncomfortable with himself. In the middle of a conversation with Ian, a conversation he wasn't pay any attention to, Blair instantly jumped up and started pacing, staring down at the floor and biting on the edge of his thumb. /Jim's my sentinel. Mine. I accepted this role. I owe it to Jim, to myself, to . . . Jim's damn "tribe."/ He paced for a few moments longer, letting thoughts gel before trying again. /Use this as an opportunity, Blair. Maybe now you can convince him it would be to our best advantage to just stay friends. . . . But how do you become friends with someone after loving him as much as I did?/ Pacing in the crowded room, Blair didn't notice any one else, locked in an inner struggle. 

Nic watched him out of the corner of his eye. He knew something was up, but he chose to leave him alone for the rest of the evening, sitting instead with Collin and grilling him about Atlanta. Nic had never been there, and Collin -- well, Collin was more than happy to expound on _his_ city. 

But an hour after Jim left, Nic appeared at Blair's side and whispered politely, "You've been very quiet. Do you want to go home?" 

Blair stared at him for a moment, into those gentle black eyes. "Do you mind?" 

"Of course not. Thank you for inviting me." 

Blair gave both Collin and Ian a hug before slipping out, Nic holding his coat for him until they reached the lobby. With a gentleman's finesse, Nic slipped Blair into his coat without saying a word, the two of them almost synchronized. The nights were growing colder as autumn fell across the Pacific Northwest. Soon, winter would arrive and then every moment would be bone-chilling and damp, the days one long experience of overcast weather. 

"How long are you going to be here?" Blair asked, even though he knew he had asked Nic that question once before. 

Nic closed his car door behind him. "Only a few weeks, I imagine." 

"Then you'll miss Cascade's weather at its worst." 

"So I've heard." 

The two men drove in relative silence as Blair returned Nic to his room at Rainier University's guest house. With practiced skill, Blair eased this car into a tight space in front of the dark stone mansion the university had purchased and renovated. "There. You're home. Sort of." 

"Thank you. For taking me tonight. It sure beat sitting by myself in that room up there." 

"No more dancing?" 

"Wasn't in the mood for it." 

"No problem." 

Nic leaned closer, and Blair was taken by surprise when he felt Nic's warm lips press against his cheek. "I do appreciate it." His mouth remained extremely close, and Blair turned slightly to face him. With just a moment's pause, Nic moved in closer, his lips just barely touching Blair's. The feathery, erotic sensation drew an itching line down Blair's spine -- and he didn't resist when Nic kissed him again, deeper, stronger. Blair's voracious curiosity got the better of him as he opened his mouth, accepting Nic's strong, hot tongue. In seconds, the only part of Blair's body he could feel was his mouth and tongue and lips, working in tandem with Nic's as his heart burst with a passion he hadn't felt since . . . Since Jim. 

Instantly he pushed Nic away. Inside the tight confines of Blair's car, the only sound was the gasping of their breaths. Finally, Blair whispered, "I'm sorry." 

"Did I do something wrong?" Nic asked blindly. 

"I . . . I can't mislead you like this. I . . . I shouldn't." 

"It's Jim, isn't it?" 

Blair nodded. 

"You two are . . . together?" 

"We . . . we were." 

"But you aren't now?" 

Blair waited, trying to piece his thoughts together, Nic's kiss and the wicked lust of what it would feel like to have that man come beside him providing too much distraction. At last, he answered, "I don't know what's going on between Jim and I. And until I figure that out, I don't . . . I don't need to be hurting other people in the process." 

"Oh." 

Looking over at Nic, his hands folded in his lap, face staring down into the floor like a punished child, Blair felt his sympathies pouring out to Nic. "I'm sorry, Nic. I'm really, really sorry." 

"No." He lifted his head to stare through the windshield of Blair's car. "There's nothing to be sorry about." He flashed a patently false smile at Blair, the hurt in his eyes betraying his nonchalant facade. With suddenly clumsy movements, he fumbled with the doorknob. "Good night, Blair. I'll see you later." His long legs took the steps from the sidewalk to the guest house rapidly, and he didn't look behind him as he stepped inside. 

Blair remained in the car, completely shocked. /Why did I push him away? The man's fucking beautiful. And he's smart and he's so goddamn nice and . . . why?/ Blair closed his eyes and dropped his head against the rim of his steering wheel. At the mere thought of Jim, Blair had instantly pushed Nic away. /Ah, jeez, this really sucks./ 

And their dinner was just two nights away. 

* * *

The next morning, Blair strolled into the bullpen, and as he tossed his backpack beside Rafe's desk, he glanced over to where Jim usually sat. He wasn't there, and Blair felt a little guilty when he realized just how relieved he was not to see him. He certainly understood why his mother ran from a city when she had broken up with a lover. Something about the geography needed to be changed as well. 

Only, this time, Blair couldn't just leave. Jim wasn't just a boyfriend. He was a sentinel. And Blair was his guide. They were partners. And although fate had been on his side this time, stepping in and placing Brian Rafe as his partner until this university killer was caught, Blair knew that his first responsibility was to be Jim's guide. Even when he was hurting the most, Blair had silenced his heart and focused on working as Jim's partner to track down the Cuban minister's assassin. He could do it again. 

But the issue wasn't about working at Jim's side. He knew he could do that. 

The issue was about accepting a date. It was about having dinner with him. It was about untangling the twisted ruins of their relationship. 

Blair shook his head. /No, this issue is whether I can convince Jim that we need to be friends./ 

/Are you sure it's Jim you're trying to convince?/ 

Then Blair rolled his eyes. /Oh, I so don't need this right now./ 

Henri Brown passed beside Blair, drawing his thoughts away. "Hey, H?" Blair called out. "Have you seen Rafe?" 

Brown turned to him, and there was something odd about his expression \-- slightly resentful, a hint of anger, masked by nonchalance. "He's in Conference Room D." 

"Thanks." 

Blair strolled through the hall, his thoughts clouding again. Tomorrow night, he would have to face Jim across a white-linened table and in a public forum discuss what went wrong. /Enough. I have work to do./ He pushed open the conference room door and stepped inside. Rafe and Dr. Simms were leaning over the table reading a document, while behind them, photos and details of each victim were pasted on a long wall. 

"Morning, Blair," Rafe said softly before looking back down at the files. Hearing Rafe say his name struck him as odd for a moment. For once he didn't call him "Hairboy." 

Dr. Simms only glanced at him without speaking. 

* * *

Blair's brain was fried, more from sheer frustration than from work. Blair had known anger before. He had felt its fiery fingers play in his chest and boil his soul -- at Jim, at Lee, at countless thugs who had threatened and toyed with him -- but he always either forgave or redefined his ire as righteous anger. 

But after working with Dr. Simms for two days, he wanted to punch her, hard. Yes, she was a woman and he knew that his brutal fantasies were terrible and reprehensible, but she had worn him down to one frazzled nerve and he wanted to grab her by her white blouse and just yell. At every suggestion Blair made, Dr. Simms cut him down. Knowing that Jim had said he smelled semen at the murder site, Blair offered that perhaps the killing was sexual by nature. 

"Sexual?" her hard voice cut him. "What evidence do we have of that? Parvin's body doesn't show any indications that he was in a sexual situation. No seminal fluid in his urethra. No indications of anal intercourse, and no evidence of the killer's semen, either." 

"You don't think there's anything at all sexual about this?" 

"I see more anger. And I sense that a lot of that anger is directed at what he feels is a lack of control over his environment." 

"Because he tied Parvin up?" 

"Among other things." 

Then Blair had tried other tactics. "There's no physical evidence that another person even did this. It's almost like it was done by a ghost." 

Dr. Simm's light green eyes practically rolled in their sockets. "You are not honestly suggesting that Parvin was killed by a ghost." 

Immediately Blair turned on her. "So if it wasn't a ghost, how was he killed without even a shred of physical evidence being left behind?" 

"The killer is taking obvious precautions to make sure that no physical evidence is being left. It's all a part of his need to control his environment." 

"How is he managing that?" 

"My guess would be the use of surgical gloves. The coronary reports suggest that he was disemboweled by hand." 

"What kind of killer would do that?" 

"One with a great deal of knowledge of forensics. To know what to avoid and how to take precautions against it. This is someone with intelligence. From what I've observed from the evidence that we do have, I believe this man has a great need for order in his environment." 

On Thursday night, Blair was obviously frustrated. As Dr. Simms was leaving, Rafe tugged on Blair's sleeve. "Hold up a second." When she was far enough away, Rafe whispered, "I'm really sorry about her, man." 

"It's not your fault." 

"I know. Doesn't make me feel any better about it. You're here to help, but she's the one getting paid." 

Blair forced a smile. 

"Look, I could tell you were trying to go somewhere with this. What are you thinking?" 

"Well, it's obvious the killer knew Barry. That would suggest that he also knew the two undergrads. I talked to Collin about it last night, and he says the two guys who are missing were gay, also. So I'm convinced this is sexual." 

"Could it be a hate crime?" 

Blair knew it wasn't. What hate crime would cause the killer to ejaculate? But he couldn't say this to Rafe without giving Jim's sentinel secrets away. "It could be. I'm not sure." 

"What else?" 

"Well, I think the best lead that we have is that he knew Barry. How else would he know we called him Barry and not Bartholomew?" 

"So you think he knew all his victims, and maybe knew they were gay, also?" 

"I'm certain of it." 

"Do you think he knows you?" 

Blair stared at Rafe for a moment. /That was very slick. You want to know if I'm gay, too, don't you?/ Rafe's eyebrow lifted slightly, testing the waters even further. 

"I mean, Barry is your friend, right?" 

"Yes, Barry was a friend of mine." 

"This guy . . . this guy won't come after you, will he?" 

Blair still didn't answer him. 

"You know you can trust me, Blair. If it's something that you don't want anyone knowing, I won't say anything." 

"What makes you think I'm in danger?" 

"Well, you have long hair, and you go to school at Rainier." 

"And . . ." 

Rafe stared at him for a moment. "Okay, Blair, do you want me to come out and ask you if you're gay?" "You seem to think I am already." 

"Well, you and Jim have lived together this long, and there were all those threats -- like the dog collar." Rafe's tone of voice grew warm with anger as he said, "And then when Jim kicked you out of the loft, you just took off. I didn't say anything, but you acted like you guys had broken up." He moved his head from side to side to try to look into Blair's blue eyes. "If I've drawn the wrong conclusions, let me know. I mean, I am a detective after all." 

Blair could only smile. "All right man. Fine. Just don't take it any where. I mean, for Jim's sake." 

"I understand. So this killer, you think he's a student?" 

"Do you?" Blair asked. 

"Not really. This doesn't sound like something a student would do, you know? It's too controlled. This takes a mature adult." 

"So you think I'm not a mature adult?" 

"Well, I mean," Rafe back-pedaled, "I don't think of you as a student. I mean, you teach there, right? You're more like an employee. Is that right?" 

"Okay, okay," Blair had to laugh slightly. 

"So who do you know who's really smart, knows everyone, especially the gay students, and who's a real clean freak?" 

Instantly Blair's mind sparked, and then he shook his head. "Nah." 

"What?" 

"It's just that I know someone who fits that bill . . . for the most part." 

Rafe reached for his pad. "Who?" 

"No, no. It's not him. Carl's just not the type. Plus, he certainly doesn't have the control issues that Dr. Simms thinks Parvin's killer has." "Dr. Simms doesn't know her butt from a hole in the ground. What's this Carl person's last name?" 

"Rafe, no. Carl is not the killer." 

"Describe him." 

"Who, Carl? He's a janitor. When you said clean freak, that's what made me think of him." 

"Is he a clean freak?" 

"No, not at all. His office is a mess. But he's a janitor, you know, so he cleans the halls. He's very friendly and he's got a mind like a steel trap." 

"His last name, Sandburg," Rafe warned. 

"His last name's Porter, but I'm telling you, you're wasting your time." 

"Fine. Now, let's name some other guys. Who else can you think of? We can go over to Rainier tomorrow and ask questions." 

But first, they had to endure Friday morning with Dr. Simms. She entered the conference room early, so that both Rafe and Blair had the guilty impression that they were late when they arrived. After giving them both condescending looks, Dr. Simms began her analysis of her initial profile. She identified someone who she estimated to be in his late 30's to early 40's. Perhaps he was an administrator or professor, someone affiliated with the sciences because of his understanding of anatomy. She focused on his knowledge of forensics to be able to hide his presence at the murder site and assumed that he had either at one time worked with the police department or perhaps advised on a case. 

"Wait, wait, wait," Blair interrupted. "How would a professor in science come to know Barry?" 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"Barry was a history grad student. He wouldn't have even gone into the science building." 

"You don't know that." 

"What I know is that I have a minor in psychology and this profile is absurd." 

"Oh, I see." She calmly ran her hand through her short brown hair before leaning over the table menacingly. "You've taken introductory psychology and then six other courses, maybe gotten a hamster drunk and timed it to see how long it took it to navigate some cardboard maze, and that qualifies you to judge me?" 

Blair's blood boiled, and he struggled to keep from shaking. "I'm finishing my doctorate in anthropology, and I've been working with this department for almost three years. I've been studying and observing criminals long enough to know that you aren't basing your profile on solid evidence." 

"Mr. Sandburg, anthropology is about studying the social habits of groups, not individuals. That is my territory. This profile is not written in stone. It merely provides us with a focused avenue so that we don't waste our time when we are out in the field. So excuse me if I don't agree with you. And from what I understand, you're here to provide us with information about the social habits of our killer's victims, not our killer. That's my job. So I will ask the questions, and you will keep your damn mouth shut until I ask you a question. Is that understood?" 

Blair threw up his hands. "That's it. I'm not working with this woman. I'm out of here." He rose from his seat quickly, almost knocking the chair back. "And you know what, Rafe? You're right. She like so doesn't know her butt from a hole in the ground." 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Rafe's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as Dr. Simms glared at him. 

"And if either of you need to _ask me a question,_ you know where to find me." He slammed the frosted glass door behind him. Driving back to his office at Rainier, Blair's thoughts raged. He dreamed of doing something childish and stupid, like holding out his leg for her to trip. Of spilling coffee on her. By the time he reached Rainier, his mind was practically jellied by thoughts of the past two days, going over and over again what she had said to him and what he should have said back. 

* * *

At 6:30, somewhere in the back of Blair's mind, he knew he had to leave to get ready for his date with Jim, but that thought was now in a four-way battle royale with the other worries crowding his brain. Who was Parvin's killer -- based on what he knew of the case and that the killer knew Barry? How was he going to work with Dr. Simms after what she had said to him? And considering this mound of work that was piling up, how was he going to manage to grade all these essays and teach a full load and write his dissertation? 

Voices babbled inside his mind. Tonight he would have to deal with Jim and his earnest attempts to make things right between them, but Blair was so tired and worn out. The anger was so real -- not directed at Jim but at Dr. Simms and her goddamn self-absorbed need to put down every analysis he had on the Parvin case, as if because he didn't have the word "doctor" attached to his name then he wasn't good enough, as though his thoughts and judgments had no real weight to them without a degree to back them up. Wasn't the essence of truth measured not by who said it but what was actually said? And would he really be able to calmly discuss his needs in a relationship when he was so frustrated with the case? /Needs? Relationship? Friendship, Blair. Friendship./ He groaned to himself, his hands gripping his forehead. /Man, I so don't want to do this tonight./ 

So with all that, how could the dean expect him to add four more students this late in the course when he barely had time to coach the students who were in his class from the beginning? And thoughts of his students made him think again of who might be out there. What wolf was stalking the flock, the very flock that he was a member? 

At the knock on his door, Blair only rolled his eyes. "Yeah?" 

The door opened, and Carl poked his head inside. "Hey, man. It's me. You need me to empty your trash?" 

"Oh . . . yeah." Blair reached behind him. "Sorry, man. My mind's not here." 

Carl set the trash down. "You all right?" 

"Me?" 

"Yeah. You look a little put out." 

"Oh, I'm fine. Just worn out, that's all." 

Carl plopped into the dark wooden chair in front of Blair's desk, one leg angled underneath the seat, the other leg extended. "What's up?" 

Blair stared at him for a moment, noticing his kind, dark eyes outlined above with ebony eyebrows. His hair was cut short, and his skin had a healthy complexion, colored along the jaw by a late afternoon stubble. He seemed so relaxed in his faded navy uniform, so unlike a man who needed to "control his environment." 

"Hey, Carl, how well did you know Barry Parvin?" 

"Okay, I guess. Enough to spot him out in a crowd, but I didn't really know him. Shame though. From what I've heard, he was a nice guy." 

"Did you know he was gay?" 

"I had my suspicions. Was he?" 

"Yeah." 

"You don't think the guys who did this did it because he was gay, do you?" 

"Guys? No, I hadn't really thought more than one guy did it," Blair said. 

"You think one guy did that?" 

"I guess. Don't know really." 

"So you're working on that case, huh?" 

"Sorta. I'm just helping out, since I know the school." 

"That's gotta be tough, what with Parvin being your friend and all." 

"Yeah. I guess that's what's wearing me down." 

Suddenly, there was another rap at his door. "Come in," Blair shouted. When the door opened, Blair recognized Rafe. "Oh, hey, Rafe. What's up?" 

Rafe spotted Carl sitting in the chair and he stopped. "Uhm, am I disturbing you?" 

"No, I was just kvetching to Carl." 

"Carl?" Rafe stepped in the office. "Carl Arthur Porter?" 

Carl jerked in the chair as if he had been slapped. "My name's not Arthur," he snapped. "Oh?" 

Standing tall, Carl whispered dangerously, "I don't like it when people call me by that name." 

"I see." 

"How did you know my name anyway?" 

Rafe was not intimidated. "I pulled it from your personnel files." 

"What are you doing pulling my personnel files?" 

"Standard procedure. We're checking all of Barry Parvin's known acquaintances." 

"Known?" 

Stepping closer to Carl, Rafe answered, "Apparently, Barry's killer knew him. Knew to call him Barry when he called the television station." 

Carl stepped back, his face an unreadable mask. "I didn't kill Barry." 

"Am I suggesting you did?" 

"You are by the fact that you pulled my personnel files. How many other files have you pulled?" 

"Quite a few, actually. Is there something I should be aware of?" 

"Like what?" 

"Like what you were doing on the night he was killed?" 

"I was here. Working." 

"Ah. I see. Well there you have it. You didn't do it." 

Carl only glared at Rafe for a moment longer before he stormed out of Blair's office, leaving his unemptied trash can on the floor. When Rafe turned to look at Blair, he could see that the grad student was angry. "What was that about?" Blair asked. 

"I just asked him a question." 

"Did you really pull a lot of files, or just his?" 

"Just his." 

"I thought so." 

With his hands on his hips, Rafe peered out of Blair's doorway. "Still, odd reaction when I called him Arthur. I wonder what that was about?" 

Blair shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe he was more offended that you, a complete stranger, waltzed in here and just spouted off his full name. That would rattle anybody." 

Rafe lifted his eyebrow. "Blair, are you angry at me?" 

"Yes!" Then he thought about it. "No. Jeez, I don't know any more." 

"Are you still angry at Dr. Simms?" 

"Oh, hell yes. I am like so angry at her." 

"I came by to apologize for that." 

Blair shook his head. "Like I said before, you don't need to apologize for her, man. You didn't do anything. I'm sorry I spilled what you had said about her, though." 

Rafe just smiled. "Well, thinking back on it, that was pretty funny." 

"Funny! You call that funny?!" 

"Chill out, Blair. Don't get so angry about this." Blair threw up his hands. "You're right. You're right. My temper is like so short right now." 

"Well, our beloved Dr. Simms gave me a few names to interview. Do you want to go with me when I do?" 

"Maybe I'll sit outside. The last thing I need are a bunch of tenured professors thinking I'm the one behind them being investigated." He checked his watch. "It's late, and it's a Friday. I doubt they'd be here." 

"Well, why don't you just show me where their offices are and I'll catch them on Monday when you aren't around." 

"That I can do. Who's the first one?" 

Rafe reached into the inner pocket of his suit, retrieved his notepad, then read off the first name. Blair just threw up his hands. 

"Brian, I'm sorry, man. She's got you on such a wild goose chase." 

"Well, let's get this over with so I can go home and have a beer." 

"All right. The Criminal Justice department is on the bottom floor. I'll show you where it is." Rafe followed Blair down the hallway and towards a set of stairs leading to the lower floor. As they stepped out of the stairwell, Rafe's brown eyes noticed the open door with the word CUSTODIAN written on it. 

"Hey, wait up a minute." 

"Rafe," Blair said in a pleading voice. "Don't." 

Rafe waved him off. 

Blair shook his head. "And I thought it was just Jim." He followed Rafe inside, and in a deadpanned voice asked, "What are you doing?" 

"Looking around." 

"Do you have a warrant?" 

Rafe turned around inside Carl's office. "Of course not." 

"Just checking." Blair watched him as Rafe read the spines of a handful of books on Carl's desk. 

"Literary Theories in Praxis? The Great War and Modern Memory? The Dhammapada? What is this stuff?" 

Blair snatched the books from Rafe's hand. "They are books. Good ones in fact." 

Rafe lifted another volume. "A Sickness Unto Death? This is normal?" 

"It's by Soren Kierkegaard, and yes, it's normal." 

"Normal for a janitor?" 

"You see, this is why I'm telling you Carl did not kill Barry. Carl has an undergraduate degree with honors in two majors. He chose not to go to grad school. He works as a janitor because the work is good and there's no stress. The rest of the time, he reads. He goes hiking. He hangs out in the student center talking to the other grad students. He's well liked," Blair said, and with a wave of his hand over Carl's cluttered desk, he added, "and you can see he doesn't have an obsession with order." 

"What's in here?" Rafe pointed to a side room. The door was open, and he could see many shelves along the wall. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he shucked off his black cashmere trenchcoat and slung it across Carl's chair. "Looks like a supply room." Rafe stepped inside. 

"Damnit, Brian, this is serious. Carl's a friend of mine and you like so don't have reasonable cause." Reluctantly, he followed Rafe into the supply room. 

* * *

With his back pressed against the cold concrete wall, Carl fought hard to control his muscles as a nervous reaction rippled through his body. /Called me Arthur son of a bitch called me Arthur -- come with me -- No -- filthy perverted boy -- No, I'm not!/ He shook the voices from his head, groaning softly as his hands gripped the sides of his face. He ached with a dull pain, and he rubbed his temples to make it go away. /Called me Arthur called me Arthur called me Arthur./ 

He heard Blair's voice echoing in the stairwell and Carl darted into one of the classrooms. He struggled to regain control of his breathing, and as Carl pressed the back of his head against the chalkboard, he could feel the sweat in his black hair. /Arthur! Arthur!/ Carl slapped his forehead several times. 

"Hey, wait up a minute." That damn detective's voice. 

"Rafe," Blair said in a pleading voice. "Don't." Then mumbling from him. "What are you doing?" 

"Looking around." 

/Damnit. The son of a bitch is in my office!/ Carl struggled to control his lungs. He continued to eavesdrop on their conversation, wanting so badly to tear into the room and confront that clothes-horse of a detective for entering his office without a warrant. But his legs wouldn't move, and it was so hard to think with the voices, two of them, saying his dreaded name over and other again -- /arthur arthur arthur arthur./ 

Finally, he heard Rafe's voice. "What's in here? . . . Looks like a supply room." Like a shadow, Carl hugged the wall, then slid into his office unnoticed as Blair slipped into the supply room. Very gently, Carl pulled the door closed, listening for the tell-tale click of the lock. Once he knew the two of them were trapped, Carl pulled open his bottom desk drawer and removed a sand-filled sock, then ran out of his office, the voices following him like a trailing ribbon /arthur arthur arthur . . ./ 

* * *

With practiced eyes, Rafe scanned the crowded shelves packed tight with milky-white bottles. Most contained solvents and detergents in citrus colors of yellow and orange. Almost all of them had black skull-and-crossbones symbols, and many presented warnings in black Arial font -- "Flammable." Slowly he ran his fingers across the bottles, feeling their smooth sides and paper labels. 

"What do you think you'll find in here?" Blair asked. 

"I'm not sure. Just a hunch." 

Then they both heard the door close. 

"Blair, did you just shut the door?" 

"No." 

Brian stepped around the tight corner of the shelves and tested the door. The knob was one long bar, and when he pushed against it, the door did not budge. In anger, he slammed his fist against the door. "Hey! Anybody out there! Open this door, now!" 

"Brian, what is it?" 

"The door's locked." 

"Can't be." 

"It is." 

"Brian, don't fuck with me." 

"I'm not fucking with you, Blair. The door's locked." With a sudden grunt, Rafe slammed his shoulder into the door. He tried it again, and again, and then a fourth time before he had to stop, rubbing his hip where the bar had dug into his body. He ran his hand across the metal surface. "Must be part of a fire wall." 

"Brian, I cannot be locked in here." 

"What?" Brian tried to kick the door to no avail. "Is my company that bad?" He kicked the door a second time. 

"I'm supposed to meet Jim for dinner. I can't be late for this." 

"A date, huh?" He pulled his gun out of his holster. "Stand back." Blair moved behind the corner of the shelf in the middle of the room. Rafe aimed his gun directly at latch on the door, then fired. In the close quarters, he heard the bullet ricochet and strike something before he heard Blair's shout. Immediately Rafe lowered his weapon. "Blair?" 

Blair lay on the floor, his hands covering his face, squirming in obvious pain. 

"Oh shit, Blair! Blair! Did I hit you?" 

"My eyes!" 

Bending down, Rafe pulled Blair's hands away, quickly recognizing the yellow stains of some kind of cleanser on his face. Looking back at the shelf, Rafe spotted the punctured bottle that his bullet had pierced. "Blair, I'm so sorry! Shit!" Quickly he grabbed a pack of hand towels, tore apart the kraft wrapping, then began to wipe away the stinging chemicals from Blair's face. "Let me see if I can find get some water." Rafe darted towards the small sink on the opposite wall and turned on the faucet. "Hold on, Blair. I'm coming." 

When he returned, Blair was shaking his fingers. "It burns!" 

Rafe's strong hands gripped the back of Blair's head. "Take deep breaths." Carefully, he wiped the wet cloth across Blair's eyes. "Can you stand?" 

"I think so." 

"Come on. Let's get you under this faucet so we can flush out your eyes." 

* * *

The cold wind rolling across his face eased Carl's anxiety, as if it were a mother's touch, calming him. He drew in deep breaths, one after another, as the cool dampness filled his lungs, stretching them, smoothing away the tension. 

And leaving something hard and mechanical in its place. His dark eyes skimmed the quadrangle, taking in the fountain and the manicured gardens with the precision of a lion gauging the strength of the herd. Which ones were the stragglers. Which ones were the weakest. 

Carl shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki trenchcoat before stepping off the front steps of the anthropology building. He navigated around the students very carefully, walking towards the dining hall for the last dinner serving. So many he didn't know. So many women. So many with short hair. 

A flash of blond caught his attention, and he focused on the color. With a graceful sidestep that no one seemed to notice, Carl approached a grad student -- Blair's age -- who was waving goodbye to a friend before strolling in Carl's direction. Casually, he let the young man bump into him. 

"Oh, excuse me." Looking up with his gray-blue eyes, Miller recognized the janitor and he smiled. "Hey, Carl. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to bump into you." 

"That's okay," he replied evenly. 

"Where are you off to?" 

"I just finished up. Was thinking of getting a beer. Care to join me?" 

Miller thought for a moment. "Uhm . . . maybe I shouldn't." 

"Come on. I'll buy the first pitcher." 

Miller smirked as his suntanned fingers brushed a long strand of white-blond hair from his face. "Oh, hell, why not? Lead on, MacDuff." 

* * *

"Is it helping?" Rafe asked, holding Blair by his hips, keeping him steady while Blair bent over into the sink. Lukewarm tapwater poured into his open eyes. Blair pulled away, and Rafe instantly handed him several paper towels to wipe his face. 

"It still stings." 

"Here. Let me look . . . They're still a little red." 

Blair pushed away from the sink, then sat down on the concrete floor. He had been washing out his eyes now for so long that his back hurt. Rafe wet several paper towels and handed them to Blair to keep wiping his eyes. 

"I can't believe this," Blair whined as he pressed the wet cloth against his eyelids. "We cannot be locked in here. Not tonight." 

"I'm not trying another shot. We're lucky that bullet hit the bottle and not you." 

"Define lucky," he griped. 

Rafe strolled around the tight confines of the room. "There's not even a window or an air vent." 

"I know. The smell of that stuff is making me sick." 

Glancing around, Rafe spotted a packet of plastic trash bags. He pulled one out, then stuffed the punctured bottle inside, tying a knot in the end of the bag to seal it. "Now to wipe away this spill, here. That should help." He stepped over to the sink and wet more towels. 

"Why don't you call someone to come get us out?" Blair asked. 

"Have you got a cell phone?" 

"Where's yours?" 

"It's in my coat pocket . . . _Outside_." 

"Oh, man. This is great! This is just fucking great!" 

"Relax, man. We won't die here. Somebody will come back and let us out." 

"No, you don't understand." He held up his watch. "I was supposed to meet Jim at seven." 

"If you were supposed to meet Jim at seven, why were you still here at six thirty?" 

"The restaurant's not far. I _could have_ made it." 

"Well, don't get mad at me. I didn't shut the door." 

"And I didn't walk into this storage room without a warrant, either, now did I?" 

"Look. There's no sense fighting about this. We're stuck here. Now, let's figure out something to do." 

Blair threw his head back. "Oh, man, Jim's gonna kill me." 

"Blair, he has to understand that we got locked in here." Rafe pulled aside several bottles and looked behind them. "I mean, it's not like you made this up." 

"That's not the problem. Jim and I . . . we were supposed to have this date because he wants . . . he wants to get back together." 

"Ah." Rafe rummaged through another shelf. "You asked." 

"No offense, Blair. I take it Jim's the one walking on eggshells. I wouldn't be all that worried about it if I were you." 

"What are you looking for?" 

"Surely there's a tool chest in here." 

"A tool chest?" 

"Yeah. To take this door down. Look, the hinges are on this side. If I could just find a screwdriver, I can pull the hinges off and take the door down." 

"So how do you plan on explaining why we took the school's door down?" 

"I'll think of something." Rafe found a plastic packet of hand tools. "Ah, now we're cooking with gas." 

* * *

Jim twisted his wrist to stare at the face of his watch. Blair was already thirty minutes late. /Thirty minutes./ He had made reservations ahead of time, and he had been seated quickly in the center of the restaurant. Every guest who walked by glanced in his direction, at the small table, the second set of silverware, the second menu, but no second party. As time ticked on, he began to feel self-conscious and alone. 

/Damn it, if he didn't want to do this, he should have just told me. I didn't twist his arm./ 

He tried to call him at home, and he got the answering machine. Then he called Blair's office number, only to reach his voice mail. 

/This is so like Blair. Avoid conflict. Run off, just like his mother used to do./ 

Longer and longer he waited, his ire growing, just as he grew more embarrassed at sitting by himself, as if everyone else in the restaurant knew he was being jilted. The waiter continued to come forward every so often to ask him if he'd like to order, making him even more conscious of himself. Finally, he ordered a drink to settle his nerves, and then ten minutes later, an appetizer, just so he would have something in front of him. Again and again he called both numbers. 

Another thought broke into his mind. /What if he's been hurt?/ Jim tried to shake the thought from his mind. But he couldn't help it. He knew Blair was a target. He was a student at Rainier. He had long hair. And since he had fallen in love with Jim, he had become more involved in the gay student organizations. He was certainly a target. 

Then again, there were other variables to consider. Blair obviously didn't want to go out with him. He had reacted to Jim's offer with some discomfort. And there was also this Nic guy who seemed to be hanging on Blair's every word. All these conflicting thoughts led Jim back to the fear that Blair had rejected him totally, and in the most humiliating way. 

Finally, after waiting fourty-five minutes, Jim threw his napkin down on the table. /To hell with this./ 

* * *

Rafe struggled with the screwdriver, pushing the pins of the hinges free of their rings. The top hinge had been freed fairly easily because Rafe had the advantage of height, but the lower hinge had been a battle. The flattened point of the screwdriver continued to slip free, again and again, and Rafe was at the point of losing heart. He needed a hammer but he couldn't find anything but a brick in the supply room -- a brick that had broken in half while Rafe was knocking the first pin free. Now it remained as a stubby square which Rafe couldn't handle as well. 

Listening to Rafe tapping the brick against the head of the screwdriver, over and over again, forced Blair to rub his temples, fighting back the headache brought on by the smell of the spilled cleanser. His eyes still burned and he just wanted to go home. He felt each ticking second with a twist in his gut, knowing that Jim was going to be furious with him. That was the last thing he needed or wanted. 

Thirty minutes later, Blair heard the unmistakeable metal ring as the last pin fell to the floor. 

"About damn time!" Rafe shouted. Standing up, he massaged his lower back before grabbing the door by the long horizontal bar and man-handling it open. As he wrestled with the door, Blair slipped past him, dashing into Carl's office and snatching up Rafe's coat. He rummaged through Rafe's coat pockets without asking, grabbed his phone and began dialing. 

* * *

After leaving the restaurant, Jim had driven by the university. When he couldn't spot Blair's car, he tried their apartment and didn't see him there either. Jim returned to his loft, his thoughts an ugly whirl of worry, rage and the humiliation of a faceless rejection. He slammed the loft door behind him, hooked his coat on the coat rack and threw his keys in the basket before storming towards the refrigerator for a beer. He had barely sipped from the bottle before the phone rang. 

"Ellison." 

"Jim, it's Blair." 

Just hearing Blair's voice instantly removed the worry and concern from his mind. 

Leaving rage and humiliation in its place. 

"Where the hell are you?!" 

"Jim, let me explain." 

"I waited for you for almost an hour." 

"I know that, Jim," Blair snapped, the stinging in his eyes and his headache preventing him from thinking rationally. 

"So, what? You didn't want to go out with me in the first place and you just said yes to get me off your back?" 

"Is that what you think?" 

"I know you've been avoiding me ever since I asked you." 

"Avoiding you?! I haven't been avoiding you. I've been working. And I've been at the station every day this week. Where were you?" 

"If you didn't want to go out with me, you should have just told me." 

"I can't believe you're acting like this." 

"How I'm acting? I'm the one putting everything on the line here. The least you could do is be honest with me." "Honest?! Honest?! You like have so much nerve to talk to me about honesty! We wouldn't be in this situation if you could keep your dick in your pants!" 

Silence fell across the line as both men's lungs heaved for breath. Blair suddenly noticed that Rafe was staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, and he realized that he had an audience in this argument. "For your information, Jim," Blair growled while Jim remained quiet and seething, "Rafe and I have been locked in a supply room --" 

"And so you didn't call me?" 

"No, because the phone was in the other room." 

"Your heartbeat is too high, Chief. I can tell you're lying." 

"I am not lying!" Blair shouted. "My heart's beating fast because I'm yelling at you and you know what? Just fuck you!" He shut off the phone, then stood there in Carl's office, his entire body trembling. 

Rafe pulled the phone from his hands and said lightly, "Let me take that before you decide to throw it." 

"Fuck you, too," Blair barked. 

"Me? What did I do?" 

"If you hadn't been such an ass and barged in here without listening to a word I said, without a warrant no less, we wouldn't have been locked in that room and I wouldn't be in this mess in the first place." 

"Sounds to me like you were in this mess to begin with and the room didn't have anything to do with it." 

Blair pointed his finger as if to say something else, but he couldn't form any thoughts, his breath rushing in and out of his nose angrily. Finally he just waved his hand and said, "Forget it. I'm out of here. You can explain how ever you want to how you broke the school's door. I don't care." With that, Blair stormed out of the janitor's cluttered office and up the stairs. 

* * *

Slowly rousing himself from the murky darkness, the first thing Miller felt was the biting cold. He shivered automatically, and when his muscles jerked his body, he felt the distressing tug at his wrists. Rolling his head to the left to see what was wrong, Miller's eyes squeezed shut as he felt the sharp pain roll through his brain, coming from a round swelling at the back of his skull. He fought to understand what was going on, trying to interpret the conflicting sensations -- the knot on his skull, the biting constraints around his wrists, the chilling cold. Slowly he realized that he was standing naked, his wrists pinned to a gritty brick wall, along with his outstretched legs. All around the room, candlelight flickered. Miller's blue eyes took in the myriad white candles burning, their wax dripping neatly onto white paper plates. 

/What . . . what's happening. Where am I?/ 

Then he noticed a figure approaching through the doorway. Dressed in white coveralls, like he had seen the janitors wear sometimes at the university. 

"Carl?" 

The black-haired janitor said nothing as he came closer, and Miller felt the horror surge through his body when he spotted the huge, steely knife in Carl's hand. 

"Carl, what are you doing?" Miller struggled to back away from the threat, his shoulders and legs pressing against the sandy brick. "What's going on?" 

Carl remained quiet, menacing. Miller groaned with fear when he felt the odd smoothness of Carl's latex covered hand press against his exposed belly. He flashed the wide blade in Miller's face, and Miller saw his reflection there, burning with fear. In seconds, he understood, and thoughts of Barry bloomed in his mind. 

"No . . . no . . . please, Carl, don't do this to me." 

At the sound of his name, mixed with the pleading tone of Miller's voice, Carl shivered dangerously, then pressed the razor's edge of the knife against Miller's face. A demonic grin split Carl's lips as he drew the blade down, from beneath Miller's blue eye, down to his jaw. The grad student gasped rapidly as he felt the first incision. Again, in the mirror of the knife, he saw the red line on his face, the blood threading down his jawline, dripping onto his bare chest. 

Then he began to cry. 

* * *

For most of that night, Blair tossed from one side of his bed to the other, haunted by the angry words that echoed in his mind. There were times when he felt like a witness to someone else's memory -- hearing the words flash back and forth over the phone, or he felt involved, yelling something new into the pillow, something he should have said that would have stalled or silenced or even hurt Jim into submission. After two hours of light, intermittent sleep, Blair finally fell into a deep numbing slumber. "Blair," he could hear Jim's voice bark, angry, accusing. "Blair?" 

Suddenly Jim was shaking him, still in a rage. "Blair, wake up!" 

Jim was gone and there was nothing but darkness and someone standing over him. "W-what?" 

Collin's voice cut through the darkness and fog. "It's the phone. Someone's on the phone for you." 

Blair didn't have a phone in his bedroom, and he shuffled down the hallway and into the living room. His eyelids clung to his eyes, and it hurt to blink. Reaching down for the phone, he mumbled, "Hello?" 

"Blair, it's Brian. I'm sorry to wake you up like this." 

"What is it?" 

"We found another body." 

Instantly Blair was awake. "You what?" 

"We found a body. It's definitely the same guy." 

Visions of another innocent man gutted and splayed suddenly blazed into his mind. Another nightmare that he would have to witness again. 

"Blair?" Rafe broke into Blair's fears. "We need you to identify the body. See if it's another student." 

"Oh god." 

"I know, Blair. I'm sorry. But we need you." 

"I . . . I know. I understand." 

"Can I come by and pick you up?" 

"Y-y-yeah. I'll get dressed." 

"Okay. I'm in the car now, so I'll be there in a sec." Rafe hung up on him. 

Collin watched Blair set the receiver down, then asked, "Who was that?" 

"It's Rafe." 

"The police?" 

Blair turned to his friend. "They found another body." 

Collin clamped his hand down over his mouth. "Who?" he forced himself to ask. 

"They don't know. They want to see if I can identify him. Rafe's coming to pick me up." Blair slipped past Collin and back into his bedroom to get dressed. 

Collin followed after him. "Oh my god, it's somebody we know, isn't it?" 

"I think so," Blair answered as he pulled on a pair of jeans. Blair dressed in silence as Collin paced in the living room. Another man was dead. Another friend. It had to be someone they knew, but who? Already he couldn't stand the idea of having to go back into that nightmare, to see all the blood, to try to look past the visceral horror coating a face and recognize someone who he had probably last seen laughing. He didn't want Rafe to get him. He'd rather wait for the forensics report and a black name on white paper. But not his friend's face. Not to look into those eyes that had endured such misery. 

Blair was tying his hair back when the knock on the door sounded. Collin pulled away into the kitchen, as much afraid of opening the door and letting the monsters in as Blair was of actually having to go into that hell. Blair crossed the room and opened the door. Outside, Rafe was more disheveled than Blair had ever seen him. His hair was tousled, and he wore wrinkled jeans, an old flannel shirt and a worn leather bomber jacket. 

"I'm sorry, Blair," was all he could manage. 

"I know. I know. Let's get this over with." 

In Rafe's car, Blair returned to worrying about the vision he would see. His stomach cramped with nerves. He tried as hard as he could to ignore his fears and to push away the images, but the more he fought, the clearer the scenes became -- the darkened liver, the yellowish intestines, the omnipresent red. For a brief moment, he thought conversation might block out the anxiety, but he couldn't get his tongue to move. Maybe he should be professional -- ask Rafe where the body was found this time -- but even that was something Blair didn't want to know. The orange streetlights whipped past their car as Rafe sped towards the site. 

This time, when Blair saw the flashing blue lights, his lungs froze in his chest and he couldn't breathe. He was there, on the threshold of this nightmare. /Is this what a man on death row feels like?/ How many times had he and Jim driven up to a crime scene and seen these same dancing lights? Why had he never felt this afraid before? As Rafe parked the car, Blair stared up at the building. On the second floor of this abandoned warehouse, he clearly saw one yellow square of window. There, in that room, was the body. 

Someone he knew. Someone who had suffered unspeakably. The fear was total and irrational. If he stepped into this room, he brought death to one of his friends, but if he fought, if he never knew, then would all of his friends still be alive and free? 

"Blair?" Rafe asked. 

"I'm . . . I'm okay." 

He pushed open the door, and he felt as if he drifted in a haze. Everything seemed distant. The other officers spoke and walked past him, but Blair couldn't distinguish them, couldn't make out the sounds. Someone he knew guided both he and Rafe into the building and up the stairs. Inside a cluttered hallway, Blair glimpsed into the spotlit room and he saw the vicious red. His feet stopped. Rafe tugged on him gently and Blair dragged his heels, shaking his head frantically. 

"Blair? . . . You okay?" 

Suddenly Rafe was moved aside and another body appeared in front of Blair. Tall. Dark. Rich scent of tobacco. "Sandburg," Simon's voice called out to him. "Take your time. Just breathe." 

"Do I have to?" 

Simon closed his eyes in sympathy. "We . . . we can't find anything on him. No clothes anywhere. Nothing. Come on. Just a second. Just look up at his face and tell us who he is." "But I know him," Blair begged. 

Simon sighed audibly, his shoulders drooping. "I know, kid. I know. I'm sorry." 

Blair sucked a deep breath into his lungs and nodded fiercely. His feet wobbled under him, but he struggled to keep control as he stepped through the doorway and into the stench of fresh death. /Look up. Look up. Look up./ 

His apprehensive eyes spotted the straight blond hair, matted with burgundy stripes of blood. The tanned skin. The soft blue eyes barely hidden by sagging eyelids. Tears filled Blair's eyes and the sobbing began. "Miller," he whispered, calling out to him. "No. Not you. Nooooo. Miller!" 

Rafe swept him up into his arms and dragged him from the room, but not before the full image of Miller's tragedy burned into Blair's retinas \-- the organs hanging like sacks past his waist, the empty cavity of his chest and rib cage smooth and round like the walls of a carved niche. Blair clutched Rafe's upper body hard, weeping into his shoulder as the detective guided him into the corner of the hallway where he could break down with some sense of privacy. "I'm sorry, Blair," he whispered into his ear as he stroked Blair's back. "I'm so sorry." 

For several minutes, Rafe held him close, trying to soothe him as Blair fought to gain control of his emotions. When the shock and anguish finally abated some, Rafe pulled back, cupping Blair's face like a concerned lover. "I'm sorry, man." Brian wiped away the tears. "Stay here, okay? Don't move. Unless you want me to help you downstairs?" 

"I . . . I don't think I can walk yet," Blair confessed. "I'm just . . . going to stand here for a minute." 

"Okay." Rafe took a few steps back, still unsure about leaving him. Blair folded himself into the corner, letting the two walls hold up his shoulders as his eyes focused on his shoelaces. Before he had come to this place, his mind had run at full steam, throwing out both thoughts and images. Now, it had screeched to a complete stop. No images. No thoughts. No memories or recollections. Just a blessed silence in this haunted place. He remained like this for a long while, his arms hugged tight to his chest as though cold, even though he couldn't feel anything at all. 

Suddenly there was a flurry of moment. Blair only barely glimpsed the man rushing up the stairs and bolting inside the room. For several seconds, he stared at the glowing doorway, wondering if he had seen something after all. Then the man was back, searching the hallway frantically. Blair stared at him, at his short, cropped hair, his strong jaw and chin, his ice blue eyes framed in panic. 

"Blair!" 

Instantly, Blair felt himself enveloped in muscle and body heat. Once he realized it was Jim, he tried to shrug him off. "I'm okay, Jim. I'm fine." 

Still Jim hung on to him. 

"Jim." 

"Blair," Jim answered finally, his voice shaking with emotion. "Just . . . just shut up, alright?" 

Jim's command took him off-guard, and Blair was instantly silenced. 

"I thought that was you. When I heard about it . . . I couldn't get here fast enough. And then, when I walked in there . . . I didn't see you with Rafe and Rafe's upset and I thought . . ." Jim clutched Blair tightly to his chest, crushing him with his panicked strength. 

Wrapped in Jim's embrace, feeling his warm arms strong and tight around his back, feeling the skin on Jim's neck pressed against his forehead, Blair could sense something melting inside. Being so tired, seeing Miller's devastated body, Blair just didn't have the strength to fight it. Something opened inside him, dark and cold and blue like a star-sapphire -- the white, four-pointed rays piercing his heart. The vulnerable emotions seeped into him. His Jim, his strong, forceful, obstinate, difficult Jim was breaking, all because he was scared that his Blair had been hurt. With a wilting exhalation, Blair molded himself into Jim's arms. He needed to feel protected right now, almost as much as Jim needed the reassurance that Blair was alive. "Shhhhhh," Blair whispered in his ear. "It's all right. Nothing happened to me. I'm here." 

"I didn't mean to yell at you tonight." 

"Shhhhhh," Blair stroked the back of his head, calming him. "I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere." 

"And," Jim began with a choking voice, "I wish I didn't love you so much. I know that's not what you want and I'm trying to deal with it, but I can't help it. I can't help loving you as much as I do." 

Tears filled Blair's eyes, and his chest ached. "Jim, it's okay. I understand. Just . . . give me some time. Okay? I just need a little more time." 

Jim continued to hold Blair tight, but his throat had constricted so much that he could no longer speak. 

* * *

When sunlight streamed into Blair's bedroom on Sunday morning, he rolled over and tried to shield his eyes with his quilt. He just wanted some sleep . . . just some moment of uninterrupted slumber that didn't involve dreams or Miller. Blair had remained at the site until dawn on Saturday, when Jim drove him home in silence. Once at home, he had to be the one to tell Collin. 

Collin took it with measured silence. He didn't ask questions. He didn't want details. But inside, his mind began to draw the implications. There weren't that many gay men on campus left who had long hair -- him, Blair, a few others. And that night, they drank perhaps too much, both of them hoping that the intoxicated stupor would force them to sleep. 

Blair wasn't so sure about Collin, but the alcohol seemed to intensify the images in his head. At times like this, Blair wished his mind wasn't so mercurial. Taking deep breaths, only one thought seemed to help him relax. 

The memory of Jim, holding him so tightly in the hallway, outside the room where Miller had died. Protecting him. And Blair comforting him. The symbiosis. With his eyes closed, Blair's chest cracked with the remembrance of Jim's warm body embracing him, the strong, wide hands on his shoulderblades, the frightened heart thumping in his chest. Blair wanted that again. For the first time in weeks, he seriously needed to feel Jim close to him. 

Thoughts of Jim didn't exactly relax him. Instead, it brought further confusion. Blair wanted them to remain friends. Common sense dictated it. The sentinel-guide relationship was paramount, and therefore, a steady friendship was needed -- not the perilous ups and downs of romantic involvement. 

But that embrace . . . 

With an "ugh," Blair threw back the quilt. /I give up./ He rolled out of bed, threw on a bathrobe, stomped into the kitchen and began making coffee. /What is wrong with me?/ he asked himself as he scattered coffee grounds across the countertop. 

Only he knew what was wrong with him. He missed Jim. Not the Jim who could hear the heartbeat of mice and see the green needles of distant firs. He missed the Jim who stirred his mornings with kisses, whose sensitive fingers summoned Blair's emotions like the new-age shaman he claimed to be himself. 

/Don't do this to yourself, Blair. So what if you want him? So what if he wants you? This isn't the best choice. It's best just to stay friends./ 

He curled up on the sofa and waited for the coffee to brew. 

/Have you been a friend?/ Blair asked himself. /Avoiding him? Snapping at him? Doesn't sound like a friend to me./ 

/That's because he insists on trying to make more of it./ 

/Do you blame him? He's feeling the same things you are. Maybe more so. Only he wants to act on it./ 

Blair tried to watch television, the volume low enough so that he didn't wake Collin. /At least one of us can sleep./ Just as he was beginning to relax with his coffee, a news brief appeared, reporting Miller's death and Blair was back on the merry-go-round of apprehension and the unwanted desires to be held safely by Jim again. In frustration, he shut off the television and grabbed a book, trying to lose himself in the history of Caucasian tribes in central China. 

Many hours later, the knock on the door startled him. Laying his half-finished book aside, Blair approached the door and peered though the peep-hole. 

Ian. 

Blair opened the door, and the rumpled image of his roommate's boyfriend made him smile. With everything he knew about Ian, some of it intimate, what charmed him the most was how this formal, reserved young doctor preferred to wear the rattiest clothes when he wanted to feel comfortable. He wore his old sneakers, a faded pair of jeans, and a tattered brown and red sweater. His thick black hair had been rearranged by the wind and now hung in strands across his forehead. 

Ian noticed Blair in his bathrobe and he instantly checked his watch. "Oh, I'm sorry, Blair. I assumed you would be awake by now." 

"Don't worry about it." He held the door open for his friend. "I've been up for a long time." 

"I heard about what happened on the news." 

"Didn't Collin call you?" 

"No." 

Blair stared at him for a moment. "Do you want some coffee?" he asked, while his mind still processed Ian's remark. 

"No, thanks." 

Blair noticed the clock while he fixed a second pot of coffee. It was already past noon, and he didn't recall the time passing. No wonder he was so hungry. "So, Collin didn't tell you yesterday about Miller?" 

"Was it Miller?" Ian asked, his face suddenly pale. 

"Oh . . . sorry." He touched Ian's arm. "Yes it was." 

"I . . . only met him a few times. He was such a nice fellow. Who would . . ." Ian chose not to finish his question. 

"I can't believe Collin didn't tell you yesterday. Is something the matter between you two?" 

Ian shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose." 

"You feel like talking about it?" 

"Nothing much to say," Ian stared at the floor. "After what happened . . . you know . . . the assassin . . . I'm too scared to be around him. In case he's there . . . when it happens again. And he seems a little distant, too. Plus, we've started bickering a lot more recently. Can't figure out why. I don't think we're really angry with each other so much as angry at the way everything has turned out, but before either one of us realizes it, we're yelling." He turned to move into the living room. "I don't know where things went wrong." 

Just then, Collin opened his bedroom door and shuffled out. He spotted Ian sitting on the sofa. "Oh. Hey. Have you been here long?" 

"No. I thought you'd be awake by now." 

"You know me. Up with the crack of noon." He kissed Ian on the forehead. "Is that coffee I smell?" he asked Blair. 

"It's almost done." 

"Thank god. I'll get the IV ready." Taking a cup, he moved the pot aside and shifted the mug under the stream of brewing coffee. Once it was full, he replaced the pot and turned. "I'll be in the shower." Blair joined Ian on the sofa. "You know, I sometimes wonder if we could handle all this better if it weren't for everything that happened last month." 

Ian stared at his fingers for a while before he said, "Things were a lot easier before Collin's cousin arrived. . . . You know, it's Sunday. I don't know what you and Jim did, but before everything happened, Collin and I would spend the entire day relaxing." 

"We did the same," Blair answered with a hint of sadness to his voice. 

"I used to look forward to Saturdays, too . . . how we all used to meet for dinner together . . . the four of us." 

"I know. I miss that, too." 

"Are you and Jim trying to be friends?" 

"Yes. Trying. We aren't having much luck." 

Ian sighed. "I wish we could go back, have a dinner, just the four of us, like we used to. I know it would do Collin and I a world of good. Do you think Jim would want to do something like that?" 

"What, the four of us? Having dinner together again? I don't know." 

"Jim did seem very comfortable around us that night we celebrated Collin's Ph.D." 

Blair remembered his own reaction when he stepped into Ian's condo and saw the three of them laughing in the kitchen. He hadn't recalled seeing Jim like that in a long time, and he knew that he wanted to feel that again. That unfettered happiness. Still, he shook his head. "I don't know. Things are really tense right now." 

"I understand. I suppose it's a bloody pipe dream, really. Thinking that kind of togetherness would make all these uncomfortable feelings go away." 

With his head bent, Blair couldn't deny the need he felt to have Jim near, especially now. A part of him hated himself for what he felt was a weakness. Jim had kicked him out of the loft when Blair needed him the most, then in less than a week slept with Lee Whitmore. He had succeeded in making Blair feel so alone and rejected and unforgiveably hurt, but here he was, feeling this irrational yearning to want to be held by this man. How could he, a man with his intellect, be so stupid as to even feel something . . . this . . . he ran his hand through his hair . . . aggravating? "Still," Ian tried again, "isn't it worth a try?" 

"Just come out and say it, Ian," Blair said with a faint smile. 

"All right, all right. I think it would be a good idea. We need support right now, and who better to turn to than our friends?" 

"But Jim and I aren't exactly friends right now." 

"But you're trying to be friends. Am I right?" 

"Well, that's what I want." 

"Then why shouldn't the four of us get together?" 

"Because I get the feeling this is a recipe for disaster, that's why." 

"But I don't understand why it should be," Ian countered. "We need each other right now. Collin and I need to be reminded of what we once had together. And you and Jim need to do the same." 

"No one is feeling particularly festive right now." 

"Maybe this isn't about festivity. Maybe this should be about healing." 

"Who are you? A therapist?" Blair rolled his eyes as he left the couch. "No, I take that back. You're worse. You're a high school guidance counsellor." With exaggerated frustration, he poured himself another cup of coffee. 

"Look, Blair," Ian pulled himself from the couch and followed after him, "all I'm suggesting is that perhaps what we need is to be there for each other. We're all stressed. It's not like a date or anything." 

"You see, Ian, that's where you're wrong. It would be a date. A date for me." 

"Could that be why you and Jim are having trouble redefining your relationship as friends? I mean, it sounds to me as if every time you see the two of you getting together, you always view it as a date." 

Blair spun around, his mouth open to snap at Ian before he realized he didn't know what to say. He squeezed his mouth into an angry, frustrated line. "Fine then." 

"What's that?" 

"I said fine. You call Jim. You talk him into it." Then Blair heard the shower cut off. "Oh, while you're at it, good luck on talking Collin into it." 

Ian watched as Blair stalked into his bedroom. Left alone in the kitchen, he suddenly realized that he was going to be in for a challenge to get both Jim and Collin to agree to dinner as well. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to envision what he would say. 

* * *

Snow had come early to Alaska. A hazy white sky hung formless over the dark evergreen trees, a sky unmarred in any way by the twists and blotches of a darker gray. No wind disturbed the branches, as if the clouds above had created a protective bowl. But the snowfall that afternoon was heavy \-- thick flakes that fell in straight lines, rising high on the land and on the still limbs of the trees. On a slim wooden dock leading into one of the many lakes in the area, Sebastian Sanders stood motionless, his gloved hands holding his heavy black trenchcoat tight against his neck. His hair had begun to grow out, and black roots cut through his platinum-dyed hair. Already his goatee had returned, along with dark circles under his eyes. Alone, in silence, he watched in amazement as snow covered everything, all the way up to the very limit of the dark, slate-colored shoreline. And over the iron-gray water, still as a dark mirror, the snow, when it struck the surface, seemed to . . . disappear. It gave him solace to see it. It stilled the pain in his soul. The misery. The exhaustion. 

He and Didion had come here, to this military outpost in the forests of Alaska. The closest town was Pelican, many miles away. It was a military research zone. Lightly guarded. Very remote. Didion had chosen this place well. The morale of the researchers here was extremely low, and away from the pressing thumb of the Project leaders in Rallingsburg, Virginia, it was easy for him to sway their allegience. They had flown here, a short ten hours after Sebastian had injected Blair with the altered heroin, meeting twelve other mutinous assassins. 

Project 57 had reacted quickly, sending assassin after assassin to eliminate them. But Didion and his men had easily persuaded them to join their group. The thought of killing, along with the threat of cancer, made their choices blatantly simple. So far, their numbers had swelled to twenty-five. 

Twenty-five in this compound, that is. On his first day here, Didion had set up a tight defensive perimeter. He wasn't concerned with the Order. He knew they would let the Project splinter itself. Maybe even aid it, not knowing that Didion's true purpose was to become more aggressive, to truly begin slaughtering the secret society. Didion's main concern right now was the Project's leadership. His actions amounted to treason, and the penalty for treason was death. Along the compound's perimeter, he had placed tiny speakers which played a looping message which only another hypersensitive could hear -- an explanation of his actions -- a call to conversion. So far, every hypersensitive who came close to the perimeter had appeared at the main gate, his arms raised in surrender, begging for the chance of redemption. 

So many, that Didion had sent them out to secure a second site, one outside Austin, Texas. 

Those attacking soldiers who weren't hypersensitives all met their makers in the dark, snow-covered forests, killed by deadly aim. 

Once the Alaskan compound had been securely defended, Didion, along with twelve other hypersensitives, had begun the treatment. 

Sebastian took a deep breath, letting the cold air freeze his lungs, and thereby, numb his heart. 

Didion's scientists had not prepared him for the treatment process. 

The thought of his lover forced him to scream inside, to return to the science center, to return to his bedside, but it was this same thought that had driven him out here in the first place, into this snow already up to his calves, to watch it -- the feather-like ice -- drifting down with no impediments -- covering all. Snow was so unusual for him, even after having lived in Manhattan for almost a year. In his home town, Savannah, Georgia, snow was such a rare occurrence that it was welcomed like a festival. He recalled how he would sit as a child, ears focused on the radio, praying that his Christian prep-school would announce themselves closed due to weather. And he remembered the excitement on nights when snow had been forecast, how he would wake up occasionally to rush to the window, hoping to see the snow falling like fat moths around the street light outside his family's home. 

And so the only place for him to go was outside, into this natural mardi gras, to regain some sense of joy in the universe. The snow fell upon him like sympathy, landing on his shoulders and his odd white and black hair, cleansing him. It was as if the verdant forest was laughing. 

Gradually, he knew he needed to return to Didion's bedside, because not only were other hypersensitves here, hoping to become sentinels . . . there were also a number of scared and nervous guides. And as Didion's guide, he knew more than anything else that he had to be strong. He had to be there for his lover, and to show that not only would this treatment work, but it would also bring salvation to hundreds of men around the country. Making his body move, Sebastian stepped away from the dock and the untroubled water. Already the heavy snowfall had turned his footpath into indistinct dips in the blanket coating the ground. Taking a deep breath, he drove himself back up the path to the research center. 

The crunch of snow under his feet distracted him, and before he realized it, he was standing in front of the entrance. The man standing guard there, tall, muscular, with soft blond hair poking from beneath the rim of his knit cap, smiled softly at Sebastian. When he came closer, the guard touched Sebastian on the shoulder. "It'll be all right, man," he said. 

"Thanks, Daniel." 

/When did Didion acquire so many friends in the Project?/ Sebastian thought as he slipped through the heavy metal doors and inside to the dry heat of the research center. The icy layer of snow that clung to the bottom of his shoes crunched against the tiles, making his footsteps slippery for a few moments until it had melted. He knew he should have scraped his shoes clean before stepping inside, but thirty years of living without icy winters had not instilled the habit in him. /One day I'm gonna bust my ass./ 

After passing through several secured doorways and narrow halls, he arrived at a more comfortable area in the center of the building. A roaring fireplace dominated a room that could have easily fit inside a ski-lodge, what with its heavy timbers and flannel blankets draped over plush, casual furniture. Even in such a relaxed atmosphere, the room seemed somber due to the many guides who sat around, silent, staring into the fire or fingering the frayed edges of the flannel blankets. 

When Sebastian stepped inside, the room grew even more tense. 

Of the twelve hypersensitives undergoing the first round of treatments, five had successfully passed through the struggle. 

So far, Didion was not one of them. 

In fact, Didion was the one least expected to survive. 

The other guides watched, the apprehension so obvious in their eyes, as Sebastian moved like a wraith through the room. Sebastian couldn't bear to make eye contact with them. He wanted this mission to be successful, but he wasn't sure he could endure sacrificing his lover for it. 

Outside the lodge room, the research center became more like a hospital again, and Sebastian cut through the blindingly white hallways to that room he couldn't stand any more. As he stepped inside the small hospital room, two doctors looked up at him. Neither spoke. Instead, they injected more of the gene therapy serum into the IV bag attached to Didion's left arm. Sebastian stood in the corner and waited for them to finish and leave. 

Once they were gone, Sebastian approached Didion's bedside. He popped the silver guard rail and dropped it down. Didion felt the bed shake and he flailed his right arm out, catching Sebastian. "Bass, is that you?" he croaked. Sebastian brushed his hand across Didion's forehead. It was drenched in sweat. His eyes so far had been rendered sightless, and yellow-orange circles darkened his face. He touched Didion's shoulder and alerted him that he was slipping into the bed beside him. 

As Didion shifted aside to give him room, he asked, "Are they gone?" 

"Yes." 

Slowly, Didion snaked his arms around Sebastian's body. He pressed his head against Sebastian's chest and squeezed hard. Unbeknownst to the men who had enlisted in the first round of treatments, the initial stage of the cure was extremely painful, as new glands were created in the brain, behind the eyes. With their sense-controls knocked off-line, no pain killer seemed to ease their discomfort. Sebastian embraced his lover, and he felt the first jerk of Didion's body in his arms. 

Softly, trying desperately to force it back, Didion began to cry. 

"It's okay, baby," Sebastian whispered, aware that Didion's ears ached, too. He brushed his hands down the Ranger's back. "No one cares. We all know it hurts." 

Didion's soft weeping grew stronger, into wrenching sobs. "Make it . . . make it stop," Didion complained in a child's voice, and Sebastian felt the words stab him. 

He held the man tighter. "It'll be okay, baby. Just a little while longer." 

"I'm . . . sorry." 

"Don't apologize, baby. You can't help it." 

"No. I wish . . . I hadn't . . . done this to you." 

"Stop saying that. Everything's going to be okay." 

"Bass?" 

"What, baby?" 

"I want you . . . to consider something." Sebastian sighed, not wanting to hear this. Still, he answered, "What?" 

"Kiegan doesn't have a guide." 

"Didion," Sebastian snapped, then reined in his anger. "Don't ever say that again," he hissed. 

"Bass, I want to know you're taken care of." 

"Didion, I'm telling you now. If you die, I'm taking my own life." 

Didion lifted himself weakly from Sebastian's grip. Even though he couldn't see, he blindly peered into Sebastian's face. Pink, blood-stained tears dripped down his cheeks. "D-don't." 

"I'm telling you now. If you don't survive, if you don't fight this, you'll be killing me, too. Do you hear me?" 

"Please, Bass. I'm dying. I know I am. Don't . . . don't turn the last few moments I can spend with you into this kind of hell. Please. I'm begging you. Don't. Don't die." 

Sebastian's chest began to tremble, but he knew he had to continue to play this card, to encourage, threaten and blackmail Didion into fighting for his life. "Then know this. That same horror is inside my chest, every day. Don't make my last few moments on this earth be the witnessing of your death. Don't die on me, Didion. Don't." 

"Bass," Didion cried into his lover's chest. "Please. You can go on." 

"And you, you can choose not to quit." 

Didion lifted his head, again to let Sebastian look into his eyes, even though he couldn't see. "With every ounce of my heart, I don't want to quit. I'll be a vegetable if you want. I'll let them hook me up to machines until I rot from old age. If that will keep you alive." 

Sebastian dragged his knuckles down the side of Didion's face. "No. That . . . that I won't let happen." 

"Promise me, Bass. Promise me you'll go on." 

He took a deep breath, but he held his ground. "No, Didion. You go, I go. It's as simple as that." 

Didion sighed as he collapsed on Sebastian's chest. He would fight this later, when he had more strength. 

In the hallway, another set of ears heard Didion's request. With his eyes closed -- a tall, athletic black man, with mocha skin and reddish-brown hair -- Kiegan let his back fall against the wall outside Didion's room. He waited for Didion to regain his compose, knowing that his friend wanted privacy. They had known each other since boot camp. He trusted Didion implicitly. Now he was his "second in command." And although he had yet to go through the treatments, he knew he was going to, despite the pain, despite the risks, if only because he had seen the look on the faces of the other sentinel/guide pairs who had succeeded. 

He would have given anything to know that his "guide" -- Samuel -- could be here with him. To share this. 

If only the Order hadn't gotten to him first. 

Even so, he knew he wasn't going to take Sebastian as his guide. He couldn't do it. Didion was his best friend. He would never, ever, consider taking Didion's place in the heart of this man who stood by him so fiercely. Taking a deep breath, Kiegan strolled into the room. 

Sebastian looked up first, his discomfort evident. For him, Kiegan acted like he hadn't heard Didion's request that Sebastian become his new guide. "Didion?" 

Through squinted eyes, Didion asked, "Is that you, Kiegan?" 

"Yeah. It's me, man. How you holding up?" 

"I want this over with." 

"You and me both." Kiegan glanced up at Sebastian, who remained at Didion's bedside, holding his hand. Bashfully, Sebastian looked away. 

"How are the preparations going?" 

"Our men are outside the Austin compound now. We'll be ready to move soon." 

"Good. And Sachs-Rochmann?" 

"Seized." 

"Pity. Have they found the second plant?" 

"No. So far they haven't. And we've moved enough equipment here that we can start manufacturing new batches of serum and the new therapy drugs." 

"Good. When I get my hands on the Project, the first thing I'm going to do is get my company back." 

Kiegan smiled. "I thought you were going to kill Dr. Coles." 

"That, too. That, too." 

* * *

Continued in 3/4.

Link to text version:


	3. Chapter 3

This story has been split into four parts for easier loading.

## Huntsman, What Quarry, Part I

by Kadru

Author's webpage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Author's notes and disclaimer can be found in part one. 

* * *

Hunstman, What Quarry?, Part I - 3/4 

Ian had had little trouble getting Jim to agree to dinner with the three of them. Jim had desperately hoped that he would get another chance to see Blair in some place other than the station. And he suggested Wednesday . . . enough time after Miller's death to let things settle, but not so long that the real reason they were meeting was lost -- to try to help one another heal. 

With a ragged sigh, Jim pressed his tired shoulders against the paneled wall in the restaurant's foyer. The past few days had been particularly rough. Major Crimes had been swamped with the media backlash from the University murders, and both Rafe and Blair dragged around the station with haunted eyes. Simon immediately pulled Jim to work full time on the case as Rafe's partner, which Jim wanted until he met Dr. Kelly Simms. There was something about her that Jim couldn't pin down -- she seemed to manipulate both detectives with ease -- refusing to give credence to their hunches and only working with her own. He wished that Blair hadn't refused to work with her, because he could use his guide's advice when it came to her multisyllabic theories. And in addition to the University murders, Jim still had his full case load. Thinking back on today, and how this afternoon he had had to wrestle down a suspect, Jim groaned. His shoulders and upper back ached, and if he still had been with Blair, he would have asked him to rub away the tenderness. 

And tonight of all nights, when he just wanted to go home and forget, Jim had to be on his best behavior. Why now, when everything depended on him winning Blair back, did he have to fight the urge to snap and bite at everyone? 

He felt a hand settle on his arm, and Jim jerked with surprise. Opening his eyes, he recognized Ian standing in front of him. The doctor leaned in close, and for a moment, Jim realized what both Blair and Collin had seen in him -- his long, thin nose, his arched cheekbones, his ebony eyes, and that thick black hair that curled in a wave over his forehead. He was both vastly intelligent and humanly vulnerable at the same time. "Are you feeling all right?" Ian asked. 

Jim rubbed his eyes. "Just tired. Hell of a day." 

"I know what you mean," Ian said, his stiff Oxford accent even more pronounced. "I've been in surgery all day." 

"I didn't know you were a surgeon, too." 

"I'm not. But a small boy came in just after lunch. Cut his hand off. I assisted the surgeons. The procedure lasted almost five hours. To be quite frank, I'm exhausted." 

"I don't want to be here, either," Jim confessed. 

Ian patted him on the shoulder. "I know. But it's important to be here." 

"So how the hell am I supposed to be --" Jim waved his hand in frustration. "Never mind. Forget I said anything." 

"Let's sit at the bar and wait for them. A drink will do us both good." 

Pushing back from the wall, Jim re-adjusted the brown suit jacket on his shoulders. Ian approached the host, and Jim could easily hear him bring up their reservation as well as mentioning that they would be sitting at the bar until the rest of their party arrived. In silence, they moved over and ordered drinks. 

"I shouldn't be doing this," Jim said as he sipped his scotch and soda. "I'm afraid this will put me right to sleep." 

"Should I order you a coffee chaser?" Ian teased. 

Jim only smiled. 

"So . . ." Ian ventured, "how are you and Blair?" 

"Don't really know. This will be the first time we've had dinner together since everything happened." 

"Collin mentioned that you were trying to get him back." 

"I am. I don't think it's working, though." 

"Do you know if he's dating that fellow who was at the party? Nic -- I think his name is." 

"Blair says he's not. I think I believe him." 

A few awkward moments passed before Ian finally said, "I shouldn't have brought that up. I'm sorry." 

"Don't worry about it," Jim replied. 

Ian drank from his gin and tonic, then added after clearing his throat. "Well, this evening certainly bodes ill." 

Fifteen minutes later, Ian glanced down at his watch. "Where are they?" Jim shook his head. He had to admit that he was getting a little angry at having to wait. This was so like Blair. Again he was waiting in a restaurant for the man to show up, not even sure if he was going to arrive. He knew Blair was trying to avoid conflict with Jim, but it would be easier on the both of them if he would just come clean and say whether or not he wanted to try to reconcile rather than continue to mislead him. 

"You don't think something might have happened to them, do you?" Ian asked. 

Jim shook his head. "Not that. Not so soon after an attack." Turning, he added, "Is that what you meant?" 

Ian nodded. "You know, there was a time when the only thing I had to worry about was my malpractice insurance." 

Jim patted him on the shoulder. "Just hang in there, Doc. It's bound to get better." 

"Excuse me?" Both men turned when they heard a stranger's voice. The host leaned in close to whisper. "Your party's here. Would you like to sit down, now?" Jim glanced towards the door and spotted Collin and Blair standing in the foyer. He waved to them, and the four met in the center of the restaurant before following the host to their table. 

Jim leaned in closer to Blair. He had pulled his hair back into a neat ponytail and worn his best hounds-tooth tweed jacket. His oval glasses did little to hide the dark circles under his eyes. "You look nice tonight," Jim offered. 

"Thank you," Blair replied as he sat down. "Sorry to be late. We got stuck behind an overturned truck on I-5." 

"My nerves are shot," Collin muttered. 

"You could have at least called," Ian said. 

Collin snapped, "With what? Smoke signals and a blanket? I'm sorry, but do I look like the world class neurologist who can afford a cell phone in every color?" 

Jim interrupted, asking in a tentative voice, "Don't you have one, Chief?" 

Blair shook his head, then he answered softly, "I gave it back when we broke up. Remember?" 

Jim blushed, beating himself up inside for stumbling over that topic. He was able to distract himself with Ian's outburst. 

"Where did that bloody comment come from? Have I ever done anything to make you feel uncomfortable about money?" 

"I don't want to talk about it right now." 

"So, what? I'm supposed not to spend it? Is that it?" 

"Ian, forget about it. I don't give a damn about the phone." 

Ian shook his head in confusion. "I was just trying to tell you that I was worried, that's all." 

Suddenly the waitress was standing beside them. "Can I get everyone a drink before dinner?" 

"YES!" the four of them answered in unison. 

* * *

The remainder of the meal passed with awkward silence, only punctuated by bitter remarks. Jim wasn't sure if it was his sore muscles or the sounds of Ian and Collin arguing that caused his tremendous headache. Or maybe it was the tiny sounds of metal forks scraped across plates as all four men anxiously toyed with their half-eaten food. The waitress poured coffee for Jim while he leaned over, his elbows on the table. He massaged his temples to fight the throbbing ache. 

"Jim, you okay?" Blair asked. 

Sitting back, his eyes half-closed, he mumbled, "Yeah. I'm all right." Then he added to change the subject, "I didn't see you at the station today. Did you come in?" 

"Yeah. Felt like I had to. Wish I hadn't though." 

"Why?" 

"That damn . . ." Blair held his tongue. "Miller and Barry are dead, and nothing's getting done about it except sticking disgusting pictures on a wall and running around interrogating people who even I know didn't do anything. And every time I walk into that station, that woman takes the opportunity to insult me. But I stopped going in and Miller died and that means I can't just quit. I have to knuckle down and fight with this woman." 

At the sound of Miller's name, Collin's hand began to shake, and the china rattled as he dropped his coffee cup onto the saucer. 

"Williams wasn't your fault, Chief." 

"I know that Jim," Blair barked back, "but telling myself that over and over doesn't seem to help." 

By this time, the waitress had realized that the four men at this table all had short tempers. She had endured their terse comments and cold stares and had even given up on a nice tip. Very cautiously, she set the leather folder with their dinner bill on the table and withdrew without another word. 

Collin reached for his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and set it across the bill. 

Ian handed it back to him. "Keep it. I'll get dinner." Only his tone was too sharp. 

"What is up with you?" Collin asked. "You don't talk to me for days and now all of a sudden, you've been on my ass since I walked in here. Granted, the meal sucked because of it, but I will not, and I repeat, will not, have you buying me dinner as some sort of weak apology." He threw his twenty back on the table. 

"I don't recall saying it was an apology" He pulled his billfold from his inside coat pocket, glanced at the bill, and gave Collin his change. "Now, what is _your_ bloody problem tonight?" 

Collin stared at him hard before asking, "I beg your pardon?" 

"You've been biting my head off all night." 

"No, I've been fending you off. Lately the only time you even talk to me is to needle me about something. The rest of the time you're hiding behind some wall." 

"Perhaps I know there should be more to a bloody conversation than you ripping into me every five seconds." 

"Well, excuse me for being pissed off. Two friends of mine just had their guts ripped out and I'm on the waiting list. How do you think that makes me feel?" 

"Like a man who's also living under a death threat? It was what, three weeks ago that someone tried to kill me? And these people are still out there. I could be dead tomorrow. The last thing I need right now is your drama queen antics." 

"My drama queen antics? Well let me be the first to tell you you've been doing a damn fine Greta Garbo 'I vant to be alone' impression yourself. You want to be alone? Fine. This is what 'alone' feels like." Collin crumbled his cloth napkin and dropped it on the table. "I need some air. Blair, I'll be out in the car, so take your time." With that, he stood up and headed for the door. 

"Collin, wait!" Ian peered up at him with regretful eyes. 

"No," Collin threw up his hand. "That I can't take. I'm getting so damn tired of being fed that sad puppy-dog face that makes me feel guilty for getting angry. No. It's not going to work this time. My friends are dead. I'm angry. And I want to stay angry." Collin turned and left. 

Dropping his head with an exhausted sigh, Ian said, "I'm sorry. None of you needed this. Not tonight anyway." He finished his coffee, then added, "I suppose I should make my apologies. I've gotten so very good at it lately." Ian left his credit card on the bill, then followed Collin outside. 

Jim and Blair remained silent for a moment before Jim said with a defeated tone, "Blair, can I please drive you home?" Blair gave him a faint, sympathetic smile. 

"I feel like I haven't spent any time with you." 

"I know. Are you okay, though? I heard you got hurt this afternoon." 

"Just pulled a muscle. That's all." 

"You were awfully quiet tonight." 

With his coffee cup, Jim pointed at Ian and Collin's empty chairs. "When did I have a chance to say anything? . . . Besides, I'm on just as short a fuse as everyone else. The last thing I want to do is snap at you." 

"You think I'm on a short fuse?" Blair asked calmly. 

Jim placed his credit card on the bill next to Ian's and handed it to the waitress. "Just split the check. Thanks." He turned back to Blair and said, "I know you're upset about your friends. And at this Dr. Simms person. And you're wearing your glasses tonight. You only do that when you're reading or your eyes are tired." 

"You know me that well, huh?" 

Staring at him with his blue eyes, Jim answered sadly, "I used to." 

They sat in silence for a moment longer until Ian returned. Both he and Jim signed the receipts and stood. "I mean it, Blair," Jim said as they walked away from the table. "Let me take you home. I want to spend at least a little time with you." 

Blair placed his hand on Jim's arm. "Believe me when I say this . . . I want to. But I think it's obvious that Collin's freaking out. I mean, Ian didn't deserve that, and Collin's going to feel like shit when he realizes what he said to him tonight. I think I'd better ride back home with him." 

Jim nodded, reluctantly. "Okay." Stepping out of the restaurant and into the cold air, Jim stopped Blair. "Chief, I need to say something." 

"Sure. What is it." 

"I don't think this is working." 

Blair froze, taken by surprise by his own reaction. "What isn't?" he asked, suddenly afraid of what Jim's response would be. 

"This . . . this dating thing." 

Blair stared up at Jim, his mouth open as a shaky feeling spread across his limbs. 

"I think we should stop." 

Finally, Blair had to look away. He couldn't understand why, but his eyes were starting to get wet and his chest ached. 

Jim shoved his hands into his pockets. "I think we're expecting too much. There's too much pressure. Can we . . . can we try something else?" 

"Like what?" 

"Well, we used to have fun going to the games. I know the Jags have a game on Friday. We could try to get Simon's tickets if we ask him." 

Blair waited a moment. He was at first so sure Jim was telling him he didn't want to go out with him at all any more. And although a few days ago, that was something he wanted to hear, suddenly now . . . his feelings were different some how. For a brief second, he thought Jim was leaving him again, and now to know that he hadn't really given up flooded Blair with such a feeling of relief that he couldn't hold himself back. "A game, huh? . . . yeah, I guess I could do that." 

Jim smiled. "Good. Good." He gave his guide a brief hug before pushing him on. "Looks like Collin's waiting for you. I'll see you tomorrow." 

As Blair walked towards Collin's car, his mind drifted. When Jim had said that their dates weren't working, he had literally felt his heart drop with disappointment. He hadn't been expecting that. For so long, he had just felt numbness and confusion. Quietly, he opened the car door, plopped down on the seat, buckled himself in, then turned back to stare at Jim, standing patiently in the beam of the street light, watching him, guarding him. 

He felt so safe. 

Settling back in the seat, a ghost of a smile spread across his face. 

Something had changed inside him. He could feel it. A yearning sensation. He wanted to feel those arms holding him again. 

* * *

Simon entered the Major Crimes bullpen with only a cursory hello to his other officers as he came back from lunch. Jim first caught the whiff of tobacco before he actually saw Simon walk quickly past him to his office. Dropping his pen on his paperwork, Jim practically leapt from his chair, cutting sharply around the corner of his desk. "Captain?" 

"Wha?" Simon barked. 

"Can I ask you something?" Jim leaned in close. "I sorta need a favor." 

Simon stared at him for a moment, a gruff look on his face. "You . . . need a favor? Tell me something I don't know." 

"Yeah . . . well . . . sir . . . I was wondering . . . you did get season tickets to the Jags didn't you?" 

"Don't I always?" 

"Do you think I could --" 

"No." Simon spun on his heels and headed for his office. 

Jim chased after him, "Wait, Simon, this is really important." 

"No. I'm not giving up my tickets. Forget it." 

"Simon, you don't understand. I really need these tickets." 

The captain glanced to the right as a figure in a navy suit drew his attention away. He recognized the curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. Even from a distance, both men clearly noticed Blair's crimson-rimmed eyes. He slowly eased himself down into a chair near Rafe's desk, then leaned his elbows against his knees to stare down at the floor. Rafe touched him on the shoulder and asked, "You all right?" 

Blair lifted his eyes, then nodded. 

"I guess you just got back from the funeral, huh?" 

"Yeah," Blair said with a hoarse voice. 

Jim touched Simon on the elbow. "Please, Simon. I need to take Blair to this game." 

Simon stared at Jim for a moment, his face unreadable. Without a sound, he turned back to his office, only to come back a few moments later with two tickets. 

"Thanks, Captain." 

Simon only threw up his hands as he stepped away, grumbling. 

* * *

As they stepped into the arena, Jim worried about his guide. Blair seemed so withdrawn and quiet. Not that Jim blamed him -- the deaths of two of his friends weighed heavily on him. He gathered that Blair knew Miller Willliams much more than he did Barry Parvin. The sullen anthropologist followed silently behind Jim as he led the way to their center seats, only a few rows from the court. After a few beers, Blair began to loosen up, then after halftime, several of the players peered up into the stands and spotted them both. 

"Hey, look! It's Blair!" 

"Hey Blair! What's up?!" 

Being spotted caused Blair to grin suddenly, and once the game began again, several of the players waved to him after scoring. 

Jim beamed as he witnessed his guide's confidence and exuberance bloom again. 

* * *

Jim held open the stadium door for Blair, then waited a moment as two women slipped through before he rejoined his guide. He watched as Blair pulled his jacket tight around his chest only to feel the cold, wet wind himself. "Looks like the weather turned on us, Chief," he said as he glanced up at the dark sky. He couldn't really see anything except for a cloudy haze cast orange by the city's light pollution. 

"Looks like a shitty time to be parked in Blue Goofy, if you ask me." 

Flipping up the collar on his leather coat to protect his neck, Jim offered, "Well, we might as well get started before the rain really hits." 

"It's not supposed to rain that hard tonight. At least that's not what the weatherman said." Then Blair shot his sentinel a look. "Unless there's something you know that they don't." 

"I'm smelling rain, Chief." 

"Jim, this is Cascade, man. You're like supposed to smell rain." 

The detective grinned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with sincerity. Like a man suddenly very comfortable, Blair sighed in spite of the cold wind. The moment passed for them slowly as they savored it. The friendship that had been lacking for so long. The comfort. Jim casually placed his hand on the small of Blair's back -- protective, gentle, caring -- as he had after many a gunfight in the past. For a moment the academic didn't move, relishing the pressure of Jim's hand on him. Only then did he realize just how much he hungered for Jim's touch. That night, when they had discovered Miller's body and Jim had wrapped him in a panicked embrace, that was the first time he had felt it -- the need to be held. Or rather, the first time he would need it. And not just by anyone. After all that had gone on, with Didion and Sebastian, with Barry and Miller, the one thing Blair desperately needed was for Jim to hold him. And maybe part of his anger stemmed from the fact that events had torn Jim from his side, when he needed him the most. 

He closed his eyes. He didn't need to look at Jim. Didn't need to see those blue eyes that stole his breath whenever the man walked into a room. Didn't need to watch the play of muscles beneath his clothes. His wry and wicked grin weren't necessary. What Blair wanted and needed was the gentle pressure and the human warmth of Jim's hand, there, at the small of his back. 

Finally they moved, but Jim's hand never left Blair's back. As they strolled through the crowd, neither man spoke much. They had a long walk to get to the far parking lot some blocks away, but they didn't feel a need to hurry. Or rather, the need to hurry was there -- but the desire to keep this evening going overpowered it -- made it sweet and precious to them both. Occasionally, their shoulders would bump together, their camaraderie meshing back again -- sentinel and guide \-- friends, partners. Healing. In the hazy twilight, Jim used his peripheral vision to study the man he loved -- how the highlights and shadows of the orange halogen lamps played across his face, danced in the curls of his hair. Tonight seemed so special -- one of those nights he hoped to replay in his memory again and again when he was old and toothless. The cold wet air heightened the rich scent of Blair's skin. The chill caused his skin to pucker with goosebumps. His dark blue eyes sparkled, and with each blink, every eyelash flashed a white star as it reflected the lamplight. Jim couldn't resist any longer. He placed his hand higher on Blair's back, more intimate, between the shoulder blades, touching his heart. Under Blair's coat, Jim could feel his muscles moving like liquid fire beneath the heavy flannel, and with every step, Blair's hair brushed across the back of his hand. 

When Blair felt Jim's hand rest higher on his back, he had to stiffle a moan. He couldn't resist it any more. He needed to feel more of Jim, and he eased closer, closer, until their sides touched. 

With a smile, Jim spread his arm across Blair's shoulder, pulling him near as they continued to walk. 

The cold splash of a single raindrop thumping his nose surprised Jim. He lifted his chin to stare into the clouds. "Uh-oh." 

"What?" 

Suddenly a downpour of icy raindrops splashed on them like a sheet. Blair gasped out loud, his lungs caught by surprise. All around him, Jim could hear similar gasps and shouts, some high pitched as other fans broke into a run for the safety of their cars. 

"Shit!" Blair shouted. 

"Come on," Jim urged him as he pushed his legs to run. The rain was not usual -- it was too heavy. Within seconds the sidewalk was drenched and heavy streams coursed along the curbside. With every step, water splashed up their pants' legs, soaking them even more. Freezing rain slid down their necks, across their chests and backs. Blair's hair felt heavy, and as it coated his shoulders, it allowed even more water to run down his torso. 

Just feet away from the truck, Jim paused long enough to work the keys out of his jeans' pocket. 

"Hurry up, Jim," Blair complained, still moving futilely in front of the passenger side door. 

But Jim's jeans were so soaked that he had trouble getting his hand inside. "I'm trying." 

"It's so cold." 

"I know, I know." Finally Jim was able to hook a finger around the key ring. With trembling hands, he unlocked Blair's side first. Leaping into the truck, Blair reached over to unlock Jim's door just as the detective dashed around the front. Once inside, Jim immediately started up the engine and cranked up the heat. 

Only cold air blew from the vents, and with chattering teeth, Blair quickly shut the heater off. "Oh my god I am like so cold." 

"The heater will warm up in a second." 

"Don't wait for it. Let's get moving. I like so have to get out of these clothes." 

Jim shifted the truck into gear and pulled out of the parking lot, rudely cutting off more than one fan to get to the highway. He considered using the sirens, but Blair's apartment was near the stadium. Halfway there, he cut the heater on again, but it did little more than fog up the windows. Five minutes later, he was outside Blair's apartment, the rain still heavy. 

"You need to get out of those clothes, Jim." 

"I'll--I'll b-b-e all right." 

"Jim, the loft is on the other side of town." 

Still trembling with cold, he said again, "I'll b-b-be all right." 

"D-don't argue with me. Come inside and I'll m-m-make us some coffee. You can at least get a change of clothes." 

"You d-d-d-don't have any clothes that would f-f-f-fit me." 

"Jim, please don't argue with me. I'm l-like soo f-f-freezing. I have to get inside. Now, come on." Blair knew that line of argument would work against Jim's blessed protector instincts. Jumping out of the truck, Jim nearly reached Blair's side to open the door for him before Blair had a chance. Both men dashed for the cover of the apartment's exterior stairway, but being out of the rain did little to stop their momentum as they ran towards the apartment. Blair quickly opened the door. He turned on the lights and waited for Jim to pass through the doorway before shutting the door behind him and locking it. 

Jim stood there for a moment, his hands pressed under his armpits, trying to keep warm. Blair grabbed him by the forearm and dragged him into the bathroom. "Hang your clothes on the shower rod," Blair suggested, shucking off his wet flannel coat, then pulling off his shoes and socks. 

"What'll I put on?" 

Blair ducked into Collin's bedroom, and a few seconds later returned with a heavy white terry cloth robe. "Here, put this on." 

"Whose is it?" 

"It's Ian's. I don't think he'll mind." Blair stripped off his shirt and tee-shirt, followed by his jeans. Once he was finally down to his boxers, which were wet and clinging to his groin, he looked up. Jim was standing there, mesmerized, while water dripped from his clothes and onto the tile floor. His face seemed washed in wonderment, and Blair felt his ribs expand slightly with fondness. "Come on, Jim. Get out of those clothes before you get sick." 

Jim swallowed, then awkwardly undid the buttons on his shirt. 

Blair grabbed a towel and began drying his hair, chest and body. Jim undressed with his back turned, unable to keep his cock from hardening at the erotic sight of his former lover standing naked before him. Blair reached behind the door and pulled his flannel bathrobe from the hook. After he slipped it on, he placed his thumbs under the elastic rim of his boxers. Again, Jim quickly turned away, unable to face that part of Blair's body that sparked him so. The sudden sight of Blair's bare arm stretching into his line of vision, holding out a towel, shocked Jim some, but he hid it as best he could. 

"Here, make sure you dry off," Blair said, before the thought of him giving Jim such maternal advice made him smile. He draped the towel over his head and began ruffling his hair dry. "I'll go make us some tea. Or do you want coffee?" 

"T-tea. Tea is fine." 

Jim stood there in the bathroom for a moment longer, unsure of what to think or say. He was here, with Blair, in his apartment, for the first time by themselves. It always hurt him to think of Blair living here, with all his things, unsure if he was having happy, laughing moments while Jim remained broken-hearted in the loft. With robotic movements, Jim pulled off his clothes, then put on Ian's bathrobe. Both men were the same height, but Jim was much bigger around the chest. When he turned to the mirror, he could see the cloth stretched tight, and how a muscular line between his pecs descended like cleavage from his neck to the white vee of the robe. 

As he stepped out of the bathroom, he noticed Blair's bedroom across the hallway. Blair had left the lamp on his bedside table turned on, so soft light fell from the doorway. But it was the scent, the very strong, heady scent of his guide that drew Jim inside. He closed his eyes and drank in the smell of the man. 

Blair returned with two steaming mugs, and he paused in the doorway to watch Jim. The sentinel slowly examined Blair's room, an obvious sadness on his face. Blair calmed himself with a deep breath -- fighting back his thoughts. He could easily remember when his feelings for this man were so confused that he couldn't even get a grip on them. He knew he still needed to work out his anger. And he knew he still needed to work out his residual guilt over sleeping with Sebastian. But underneath all of that had been a small seed of rememberance of how deeply he had loved Jim. And gradually, over the course of the week, that seed had germinated until now like an oak seedling, it was pushing apart the heavy rocks that covered it. 

He suddenly didn't feel so uncomfortable around Jim. 

Jim wasn't sure how long he had been standing there, experiencing the fabric of his guide -- maybe he had zoned -- when he felt Blair's hand on his shoulder and his electric voice. 

"Jim, you okay?" 

"Uhm, yeah." He opened his eyes and took in all the details in the room \-- the bookshelves, the dresser, the large bed -- all this furniture that seemed foreign to Blair. When he had lived with Jim, his room had been so small and junky, but now it seemed almost formal and prim. Framed posters hung over the bed and along the other walls. A table runner had been draped across the top of the dresser, and small pieces of objet-d'art decorated it. "This . . . looks nice," he said. 

"Thanks." 

"A lot . . . nicer than at my place." 

Blair detected the hint of sadness. "Well, most of this stuff isn't mine," he offered. "Collin's last roommate left if all when he moved out." 

"Oh. I see." 

"Here, I made us some tea." He handed the mug to Jim. 

Still, Jim couldn't pull himself from Blair's room. And Blair didn't mind. He sat down on the foot of his bed, not far from Jim. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Blair could tell Jim was uncomfortable with being in his apartment, so mindful of Blair's space these days. And he could tell that Jim was really trying to let Blair feel safe again, safe with him and around him. He decided to return to favor. 

When Blair set his tea down on his dresser, Jim did the same, then he stepped closer. He sat down heavily on the side of the bed, at right-angles to Blair, their shoulders barely touching. "Uhm, where's your dryer?" he asked. 

"It's downstairs. We don't really have one. We use the apartment complex's." 

"Oh." 

"We'll figure something out." 

Jim pricked up his ears to listen to the rain which continued to pelt the roof heavily. "No real hurry, I guess. Doesn't sound like the rain's going to let up any time soon." 

Blair shivered slightly. 

"Still cold?" 

"A little. Guess it's the hair." Blair shifted slightly to reach for a comb on the dresser. As he drew the teeth of the comb through his curls, his hair insisted on tangling. "Ouch. Jeez, sometimes the hair just isn't worth it." 

"Here, let me." Jim took the comb from Blair's hands. Dialing up his sense of touch, Jim gently stroked the comb through Blair's long, thick hair, stopping before the tangles pulled on Blair's roots too hard. As he did, he let himself enjoy the act -- the cool wet hair under his fingertips, the way the curls tendrilled around his knuckles, the damp smell, the warmth rising from Blair's skin. For several minutes, they remained silent, Blair with his eyes closed, his breathing even and relaxed from the sensual feel of Jim's hands in his hair. Once Jim had finished untangling his guide's curls, he continued to draw the comb through, listening to the soft sounds of hair against skin and plastic, finally allowed to touch his partner in such a loving manner. Blair's mind didn't register that his hair flowed easily through the teeth of the comb -- he didn't care. The care and gentleness of Jim's movements lulled him into an almost meditative trance. 

Inside Jim, the craving for his guide grew stronger. He wanted to feel Blair. Needed to experience more of this body warmth. Slowly, he dropped the comb to the side, and then with both hands, he gripped Blair's shoulders, squeezing the muscles in a gentle massage. Blair literally moaned. 

"You're all knotted up, Chief." 

Blair didn't hear him. The warmth of Jim's hands passed over him like the spray of a hot shower. Meekly, he rolled his head around on his neck, loving the feel of Jim's strong hands on his flesh. A wave of pheromones rose from his skin, and Jim inhaled deeply to enjoy it -- the richness and seductive power. /God, I love you, Chief./ As he continued to massage his partner, a sadness opened up in his heart. /You aren't mine,/ he thought. /I'm trying, but you still aren't mine. You still won't let me love you./ Still, his fingers pressed into Blair's back, wanting him, wanting to be with him again. To go home each night and smell this powerful scent in his home, and not the insidious traces that he had to hunt for, proclaiming Blair's absence and shouting to him the reason why Blair was vacant from his loft. To have a life that they had enjoyed this summer -- of gardening, of dinners with Collin and Ian, of Sunday mornings spent drinking coffee and arguing over the Sports section, of fixing him dinner, of reading poetry to him. /If any of the guys saw me reading poetry to Blair --/ 

But that thought stopped him. It was precisely this fear that kept him from having the man he loved. 

In his own reverie of non-thought, Blair was finally disturbed when he felt Jim's forehead pressed against the back of his neck. Jim's voice squeaked out, broken and desolate, "Oh, Blair." 

Immediately Blair turned around. "Jim, what's wrong?" 

Without lifting his chin, Jim raised his eyes, sad and broken. "I . . . I . . ." 

"What is it?" 

"I don't think you want me to say." 

The barest hint of a sympathetic smile warmed Blair's face. "Oh, Jim." He knew then how much Jim had been holding back, and why he was so uncomfortable inside his apartment. "Tell me what's wrong." 

"I . . . I want . . ." His voice came out in gasps. 

Blair understood why Jim couldn't ask it. He had knocked Jim back so many times whenever he had tried to beg Blair to come back to him, and now Jim was playing by those rules in spite of an overwhelming need to break them. "You can tell me. I won't get mad." 

"Can I . . . can we . . ." Jim sucked in his breath and pulled in as much bravery as he dared. "Tonight, please, can we . . . be in love again?" Quickly he added, "I mean, tomorrow, tomorrow we can go back to the way things are, friends, partners, whatever you want, it's just tonight . . . I want you so bad. Please? Tonight?" 

Blair felt a warmth blossom inside his chest as he heard Jim's voice, saw the pleading look in his eyes, even heard the rationalization he had made to keep within Blair's guidelines. Delicately, Blair traced the features of Jim's face with his fingertips. "Oh, Jim." 

"I'm sorry, Blair." His voice came out so tired, so exhausted. "I just . . . couldn't hold it back any longer." He stood. "I'll get dressed and leave." 

"Jim?" 

"Y-yes?" 

"Will you stay . . . if I ask you?" 

For a moment, Jim wasn't sure he heard it, and even if he heard it correctly, how to interpret it. "What?" He sat back down on the bed. 

"Will you stay, tonight? With me? Like it . . . used to be?" 

Jim placed his hands on Blair's shoulders, still unsure. Taking a chance, he ran the back of his knuckles across Blair's cheek. The young man sighed at his touch, his eyes closed, and he rolled his head cat-like against Jim's hand. Jim drew in his breath in a shuddering gasp. Slowly, frightened to the core of scaring Blair into changing his mind, Jim drew him closer to his chest as his arms embraced him. Carefully, he placed his lips on Blair's. They were soft, dry, yielding. His soul cracked in half, the hunger burning inside him when he brushed Blair's lips as the love for this man burst into his consciousness. "Blair," he moaned. Again he kissed him. Then his rational half screamed into his brain \-- /You have to pull back/ -- Blair demanded space and this could be the action that loses him. 

Almost groaning with the strain, Jim pulled back. 

Blair felt possessed. This first gentle kiss threw all of his anger and caution to the side as the hunger came forward. Blair moved his lips closer, kissing Jim on his own. 

The sentinel shuddered violently as he felt the first lock on his emotions give way. Pulling Blair tighter, he kissed him again, his tongue brushing against those lips. Blair opened, gave Jim access, and the sentinel's tongue moved into his moist mouth, feeling those teeth that he remembered, feeling how Blair's tongue slid against his own -- snakelike and in unison, bumpy on one side, so silky smooth underneath. 

It felt like coming home. 

With the care that he used with something fragile and dangerous, Jim lowered Blair to the mattress, then hovered over him, leaning on one elbow. His free hand passed over Blair's chest, down his stomach, then back again, afraid to touch Blair's groin. But Blair's hands cupped his shoulders, pulling him down again. "Jim?" 

"Yes." 

"I need this." 

Jim's mouth fell open, and another lock broke on his chambered feelings. The coolness of the emotion rolling into his chest frightened him with its pain. His eyes grew damp. "You . . . what?" 

Blair smiled at his shock, his joy at seeing Jim so shaken lighting his face and shining through his eyes. "I . . . I need you." 

"Oh, Blair." 

And even though he knew the answer, from having heard it for so many weeks now, Blair knew he had to ask this question, to let Jim know the full import, "Jim, are you sure . . . are you sure you still love me?" 

Jim's breath was ragged. He trembled all over, and he had to quickly shore up his balance. 

"Please . . . don't leave tonight." 

Unable to hold himself up anymore, Jim rolled on top of Blair, embracing him tightly. All over his body, he could feel the warmth of Blair coming through their thick cloth robes. Blair's hands gripped his back. 

Two months of holding back his emotions, two months of dealing with the pain of separation, tore through Jim's chest and overcame him. Memories of Blair being hurt by him, of his face squeezed tight in pain, of his rage and rejection directed at him -- all this bubbled to the surface, followed by scenes of those lonely nights staring into the fireplace, wondering if Blair would ever be happy again. All those nights of coming home to his empty loft, living in darkness, searching for Blair's heartbeat and finding nothing. The despair and the emptiness welled up again. But this time, it was mixed with rushing feelings of release. He replayed the words in his head, "I need you. I need you," until he realized that these weren't memories, that Blair was chanting them in his ears. /Blair . . . wants me again. He wants me again./ 

Underneath Jim, Blair endured the weight of the sentinel's body on his chest, remembering how good it felt, not wanting it to stop. His hands rubbed Jim's muscled back, so glad to be holding him again. Memories of Jim's betrayal still lingered, but Blair thought they always would. Then something seemed off-kilter. The strangeness of the moment startled him from his thoughts. Jim's face had been pressed against his neck, and now it was hot and wet. "Jim?" He pushed back Jim's shoulders slightly, causing the man to rise. "Jim, are you okay?" 

Tears spilled out of Jim's eyes, down his cheeks and onto Blair's face. First Blair wiped his own face before reaching up to dry Jim's eyes. "Jim, what's wrong?" 

"I don't . . .I don't know, I . . ." He sat up quickly, and Blair sprang up with him, his arm around Jim's waist to keep him from bolting. 

"Are you okay?" 

"I can't stop crying," he admitted in a weak, ashamed voice. 

Blair slipped both arms around him and held him tight. "It's okay." 

Jim held Blair to his chest, pressing his face against his partner's neck. "I've wanted this for so long and now I can't stop. I can't . . . Oh, god this is so embarrassing . . ." 

Again, the cold painful power of his love for Jim washed over his chest and into his stomach as Blair held his sentinel. "Jim, I'm sorry. I didn't trust you at first and I didn't trust myself and I was so scared you weren't feeling anything--" 

"No, Blair, I love you. I love you." 

"I know. It's okay." As Blair continued to stroke Jim's back, emotions welled up to overpower the detective. He held onto Blair like a life raft. "Just let it out, Jim. You've kept this bottled up for too long." 

At this command, the floodgates burst inside Jim, and he sobbed out loud, raking Blair through coals of guilt. He rocked Jim slightly, letting his lover work through wave after wave of emotion and release. /This man really loves me./ So much so that he had forced down all his feelings for this one play to win back his lover. This is what Blair had wrought \-- this emotional breakdown -- like a fever after a great stress -- he, the guide, did this. And Jim clung to him so hard, shaking and trembling. 

Finally, when the quaking subsided, Blair whispered in Jim's ear, still stroking his back as he had through the entire episode. "I'm sorry I've been pushing you away." 

"No," Jim said quickly, punctuating it with a tenacious hug. "I hurt you." 

"We hurt each other." 

"I can't explain what I did and it scares me so much because I love you and I did this to you." 

"I know, Jim. I know." 

"I don't understand it and--" 

"Jim?" 

"--I didn't mean to but--" 

"Jim, shhhhh. Enough. You know what? This is happening because you're exhausted, okay?" He pulled away to cup Jim's face in his hands. 

"Please don't make me leave," he pleaded. 

"Oh, Jim. Of course I don't want you to leave." 

"Okay," he said sheepishly. 

"But you're exhausted, and your emotions are getting the better of you. Why don't we just get some sleep, okay?" 

"Can I . . . can I hold you? . . . . Please?" 

Blair smiled. "Jim, will you hold me tonight? Will you sleep with me, like we used to?" 

Tears welled up in Jim's eyes, and Blair didn't want to risk upsetting him again. Quickly, he pulled back the sheets then stepped out of the room to turn off the lights in the apartment. When he returned, Jim was still sitting there, dumbfounded. Blair took Jim by the hand and pulled him up. "Take off your robe," he whispered, doing so himself. With the bashfulness of a child, Jim cast his eyes downward, untying the cloth belt. He handed Ian's robe to Blair, then sank down onto the bed, pulling the sheets over his body but holding them up slightly so that Blair could slip under them. Once Blair was close, Jim lay back so that Blair could position himself along his side, his head on Jim's chest -- their favorite way of sleeping together in the past -- Blair's leg pressed firmly between Jim's thighs -- Jim's arms draped protectively across his back and waist. 

* * *

That night, Jim slept soundly, the kind of sleep he hadn't experienced in weeks. When he woke up, early Sunday morning, he found Blair still cradled against him, his back against Jim's chest. Both men were nude, and Jim felt himself growing harder between Blair's buttocks. Lightly, his fingers meshed with the curly chest hair, tracing the silver ring of the pierced nipple. For so long, he had missed this simple pleasure \-- of holding this man close to him, smelling him, feeling his heart beat strongly against his chest. As his body indulged itself on Blair's presence, his mind and heart drifted elsewhere, to places that still haunted him. Lying there, with Blair asleep in his arms, Jim prayed that his former lover would remain asleep, for as long as possible, so that Jim could soak up as much of this man as he could before morning came. 

By the time Blair roused himself, Jim's state was definitely morose. "G'morning." 

"Morning, Chief." 

"You okay?" 

He remained silent for a long time before he finally answered, "I guess." 

Blair snuggled into Jim's arms. He could tell something was troubling Jim by his pregnant pause and the sound of his voice, but Blair resolved that he needed this, he needed just a few sad moments, of feeling Jim holding him, as it had been, long ago. When after several minutes Jim's hold on him had actually grown tighter, Blair knew he had to say something. "What's wrong?" 

Jim didn't answer him, but he pressed his forehead between Blair's shoulder blades. 

"I can tell something's bothering you." 

"It's just that . . . this is so nice. I don't want to risk . . . this." "I know." 

"But I can't . . . do this without . . ." 

"We need to talk. I know." 

"But I don't want to say this," Jim whined. "I'll lose you if I do." 

Gently, Blair ran his hand down Jim's arm, from his elbow to his wrist, trying to calm him. 

"I've been going over it all, in my mind. I don't understand most of it. But before you say you want me back again, I can't . . . I can't deceive you." 

"Oh, Jim." 

"No, listen to me. I don't know why I slept with Lee. I swear I don't. I didn't like him. I wasn't attracted to him. I love you so much. I just . . ." 

"Jim, it's okay. I mean, I won't lie to you -- it hurt." At Blair's words, Jim squeezed his eyes shut. "But it hurts just as bad not to have you in my life, so I . . . I guess I need to deal with it." 

"I'm sorry." 

"I know, baby, I know. But I . . . slept with Bass, so I guess this is something we both have to deal with . . . and learn from." 

For a few quiet moments, the men remained in their tight embrace. Finally Blair said, "Okay, Jim, what else?" 

"This is the part that scares me." 

"Take your time." 

Jim sucked in a deep breath to calm his nerves. "What I . . . did to you. Kicking you out." 

This time Blair sighed. "Just don't do it again, okay?" "I . . . I can't promise that, Blair." 

Blair shifted, turning to face Jim. In the morning half-light, both men could see each other's expressions. Jim's eyes were haunted by fear and remorse. His fingers traced Blair's chin, his jaw, his skin, focusing on the parts of his face that didn't include his piercing eyes. "I . . . did that . . . to protect you." 

"You hurt me. Probably more than sleeping with Lee. You rejected me." 

Jim squeezed his eyes tight, the wrinkles of skin distinct and foreboding. "I know." His hand grew still, resting on Blair's stubbled chin. "I remember thinking it was the only decision. It took over every thought. I had to protect you. I had to." Finally he made eye contact with Blair. "You mean everything to me, Chief. Everything. I'll take on every pain, every bit of loneliness, but you _will_ be safe." 

Blair took Jim's hand in his own. "Jim, you need to learn that sometimes the best way to protect me is to keep me at your side." 

"I know, I know. It makes sense . . . now. I can't tell you enough how right that sounds. But then, Blair, the only thing I could think of was to make sure you were safe, and alive, at any cost." 

"That's why I'm saying, don't do it again. Look before you leap, man. At least listen to my input when I give it to you." 

Sighing again, Jim repeated himself. "I can't do that, Blair." Blair sighed out loud in frustration and Jim had to grab his chin. "What I did, it happened like a knee-jerk reaction--" 

"Emphasis on the jerk." 

"Blair, please." 

"Go on." 

"Every time I go over what happened, none of it makes sense. I just did it. It's like I didn't have a choice. Like I was watching it happen and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it." 

Blair kissed him on the forehead, and Jim reacted by pulling him close. 

"I want you so bad, Blair. I swear. But I can't bring you back like this, not when I could hurt you all over again. Can't you see that? I don't ever want to see you hurt again, and I'll take on any pain not to do it. I'd choose to never hurt you, again and again, but what I did, I didn't choose that." 

For a moment, Blair looked into Jim's eyes -- soft with pleading -- pained with worry they could not possibly conceal. His hand traced the line from Jim's temple, down his neck to his shoulder. He loved Jim. He knew it. He loved him because he was a sentinel, and he was the epitome of everything he had searched for in dusty books. And he was committed to protecting his tribe, his city, guarding, policing, bringing justice. And underneath that gruff facade, he hid a certain sensitive beauty, a reaction to things most people took for granted -- smells in the market, the colors of the setting sun, light on snowflakes, the sounds of human voices. His dry sense of humor always crept forward during the most awkward situations. His romantic nature always surprised Blair. And added to all of that, his blue eyes were so intoxicating, especially when he smiled. 

"I guess," Blair began, "we really aren't the best couple." 

Jim sucked in his breath. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. 

"But couples . . . they have to work at it. No one gets a perfect love." His finger lifted Jim's chin. "No one. That's just make believe. Real couples fight. Some of them even make up." 

Jim looked away, his arms releasing Blair from their hold. Slowly he pushed back the sheets, forcing himself to leave the bed and the man who had given him everything once. He sat up and placed his feet on the carpet, steeling himself. He would now walk away from the man he would die for, the man who kept him alive, because he just couldn't risk hurting him a second time. 

Blair touched his hand. "Jim?" 

"Yeah?" 

"The truth is . . . I think . . . I think I'm falling in love with you again." 

Jim turned to look at him, not able to speak, not really sure what to say if he could. 

"I . . . want to give it another shot . . . that is, if you do. Slow. To make sure it's right this time." 

Jim's lungs expanded with a deep breath, and a warm smile spread across his face. Carefully, he lay back on the mattress and spread his weight across Blair's body, his elbows preventing him from crushing him. He held Blair's face for a moment, almost grinning. It seemed difficult to breathe, but at the same time, fantastic, as he felt a burden lifting from his chest. "A second chance is all I'm asking, Chief. I'll try not to fuck it up this time. If you'll help me." Then Jim pressed his closed lips against Blair's. They kissed for a while longer, gentle, lingering kisses with just their lips. Inside, Jim felt like he was about to shatter into countless shards. "Chief?" 

"Yes?" 

"Want some breakfast?" 

Blair laughed slightly. Jim had taken them from sacred confessions to profane hunger in just seconds. "Yeah." 

"What have we got to eat?" 

"Don't know. Let's go find out." 

* * *

Later that morning, Jim pushed open the door to the loft and stepped inside. For weeks now, he hadn't turned on any lights, and he strolled into the loft as usual. Missing the sofa and table easily, he crossed the room to the stairs. He climbed the steps, two at a time, more than ready to take off these tight, hard jeans and damp-smelling clothes. 

Outside, in the hallway, Blair felt every part of his gut cramp. The ride over had been torture. The first time in the loft since he had stormed out, swearing to never step foot in it again. Here it had happened. Jim had kicked him out. And he had fucked Lee here. In the bed upstairs. In their bed. While he was in Collin's apartment, bawling his eyes out, wanting to die, Jim had fucked FBI Special Agent Lee Whitmore. He turned on the lights, and everything flashed in his mind. 

Blair stepped into the center of the loft, looking around like a shell-shocked soldier forced back into the trenches after being gassed months before. The objects felt so familiar, but oddly painful. Each solid thing brought back intangible emotions. He looked into his room, saw that it was immaculately clean and accusingly sterile -- no books, no masks, no trace of Blair. The sofa, where they had held each other on lazy Sundays such as this. The fireplace Jim would bank when the temperature dropped to a certain degree, not too cold that Blair began to complain, as if the sentinel monitored even the air for his comfort. The balcony onto which either would go in distress. 

The herb garden -- long dead -- brown threads hardened over the cold, wet terra cotta. 

The memories nauseated him, and his skin grew flushed. Last night, it had all been so easy to deal with his emotions, sheltered as he was in his apartment. But now, back in the loft, every scar seemed fresh and bleeding. The heavy blocks of anger and betrayal came crashing down on him, crushing the fragile feelings of love he had felt just last night. 

Jim pulled the sweater over his head, still feeling so powerfully joyful. Taking a deep breath, he filled his lungs with the smell of Blair -- fresh, real . . . and . . . wrong. Quickly he opened up his hearing, wanting, needing that heartbeat that had been vacant for so long. 

The sound of it was troubling. 

Ignoring his socks, Jim padded down the stairs in his bare feet, only to find Blair standing in front of his empty bedroom, his arms crossed, his face twisted with emotions. 

"Blair?" 

His guide turned slowly, reluctantly, and Jim could see the anger and hurt in his blue eyes. "Oh, Chief." Jim crossed the distance quickly and embraced him. 

"You . . . you hurt me." 

Every muscle in Jim's chest clamped around his heart and wrenched him hard. "I . . ." his voice betrayed him, strained, cracking. "I . . . I know. I . . . I--" 

"Do you have any idea how much you hurt me?" 

Now it was Blair's turn. Last night, Jim had let go, had pulled the banners down and let the troops retreat. But as Jim pulled him tighter, Blair's arms remained crossed around his chest, unwilling to touch his sentinel. 

"I . . . I was so fucking devoted to you--" 

"I know, Chief, I know." 

"--and you hurt me." 

Last night, for Jim, had been about stress and hopelessness. But now, as the sadness welled up inside him, it wasn't about the unsteadiness of the future that troubled him. The realization of all he had done to this man in the recent past overcame him. "Blair." 

The shaking started. Blair tried to choke it back, but he couldn't. Still he wouldn't unwrap his arms from his own chest to touch Jim, despite Jim's anxious hold on him. He saw Jim throwing him out. He saw Jim, that day, just letting him walk out of the loft. Now, back in the loft, his memories came back with a vivid clarity that overwhelmed the vulnerable need he had felt for Jim last night. Then his mind imagined it -- the ecstacy of Jim inside Lee. The betrayal. The rejection. 

Then the rage. 

"I can't." Blair pushed against Jim's chest. "I can't . . . do this." He freed himself from Jim's grip and rushed out of the loft, leaving the door open. 

Jim stood there, in shock, his lungs heaving. Heavy breaths came in ragged gasps. /You . . . you can't?/ For several moments he stood there, unsure of what he had heard. 

"Chief?" 

He heard no answer. 

With leaden steps, he traced Blair to the stair well. He found his guide sitting in the middle of the stairway, his arms crossed on his knees and his face buried. Carefully, Jim sat down behind him, his muscled body covering Blair's -- straddling him -- wrapping his arms around him. Jim pushed his face into Blair's curls. 

"I . . . can't." 

"Blair, I love you." 

"I can't." 

"Please, baby, please. I'm begging you. A second chance. Please." 

"I can't go back in there." 

Jim felt his throat close tight, like hands strangling him. "Oh . . . okay." 

"You hurt me there. It just . . . it just all comes rushing back when I'm in there. I can't help being so goddamn mad at you." 

Jim closed his eyes. The guilt and pain were overpowering. For almost a minute, he couldn't speak. Sitting behind Blair, holding him so tightly, Jim let his arms squeeze the man even closer. Listening to Blair choke back his emotions, Jim knew he had to speak. 

"I . . . I remember . . . thinking that you were going to die. And I . . . I just couldn't let that happen. I . . . I knew it was going to hurt me. I knew it was going to kill me and I knew I was never going to be happy again. But I kept thinking that if you could just find another man, someone to love you, then you'd forget about me eventually. And then, _you'd_ be alive, and _you'd_ be happy. That's all I wanted. I wanted you to be alive. And god, Blair, I wanted that other man you fell in love with to be me, but if it couldn't, I still wanted you to be happy." 

"And Lee?" 

Jim breathed deeply. "I don't know what happened there. All I can think is that I was so fucking miserable, thinking that you were alive, and that someday you'd be happy with another man when I never would, maybe that's why I did it. I . . . I don't know. All I know is that from the moment you walked out of that loft, my life ended. And I've been in hell ever since. I love you, Blair. I want you back. And I'll do whatever you ask of me." 

It took them several minutes to regain their composure. Finally, Blair said, "Jim?" 

"Yeah." 

"I can't go back in there. Not yet." 

"O-okay." 

"I'll . . . wait here, all right?" 

"You sure?" 

"I just can't go back in there. It makes me too damn angry." 

"Okay. It'll only take a minute." Quickly, Jim released Blair and he scrambled out of the stairwell. The door to the loft had been left open, and Jim rushed inside, grabbing clothes from upstairs. He tried not to look at the surroundings but he couldn't avoid them, and the vision of the loft caused him to freeze. Here, on this sofa, Incacha had died. Larry, the ape, had trashed the entire place. Blair had made his algae shakes. There Jim had built fires. And on that balcony, he had cried for Tom's death. He had made a garden for both of them to enjoy. And he had let it die. 

He saw the table and the wooden bowl on it. And the glaring crack down the side. 

Blair had broken it when he had thrown it at him. The last time he had been inside this place. 

Jim closed his eyes. His home was nothing more than a reminder of how horrible he had been to Blair. He paused long enough to slip on his white socks, then his hiking boots before running out, back into the stairwell. 

Blair was still there in a small bundle of sadness and anger. Taking a deep breath, Jim sat beside him. Slowly, he took Blair's hand in his own. 

"Chief?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I'm ready." 

* * *

Collin dragged the apartment key from his front pocket, his thoughts quiet. Dinner with Ian had been even more uncomfortable than usual, if only because of the silence. Ian had remained in the kitchen, his thoughts unreadable. Collin had kept to the living room, watching the fire, his mind constantly dredging up memories of Brian, his lover from Atlanta. There were so many times between him and Brian, right before the end, before Brian slept with Didion, then fell in love with his partner, Scott, also on the Atlanta police force. Collin would remain upstairs, while Brian sat, watching television, drinking beer. So much silence. 

He closed his eyes, resting his head against the rough doorframe. 

At least tonight was Sunday night. Tomorrow would be another day on campus, with the gay student union meeting that night. He wouldn't see Ian until maybe Tuesday. / _Maybe Tuesday._ / With exaggerated movements expressing his frustration, he thrust the key into the lock and threw open the door. 

Only casually did he look over at the sofa, and the sight caused him to do a double-take. Blair sat, cuddled against Jim's chest, while the detective's arms held him protectively. Jim was already looking at Collin, as if he had expected him. Blair, though, lifted his head from Jim's chest, his curly hair obscuring half his face. 

Jim quickly lifted his left arm and checked his watch. "It's getting late, Chief. I need to go." 

Blair sat up. "You don't want to spend the night?" 

The sentinel smiled, running his open hand across the top of his guide's head, stopping at the back of his neck. 

"Blair, we said we'd take this slow." 

"Yeah?" 

"Well, I want you to know that this is for real. I love you. You mean everything to me." 

"I just thought--" 

"And I'm not going to . . . you know . . . _be_ with you . . ." He glanced awkwardly at Collin, not comfortable speaking so intimately to Blair with another person listening. "Not until you can come back to the loft. Until you feel safe there. Until that place no longer hurts you. Then I'll know. When you can stand that place, then we'll both know we're ready to really be together again. Okay?" He kissed Blair on the forehead, then lifted himself from the couch. 

As Jim came closer to the coat rack where Collin was standing, dumbfounded, he said easily, "Hey, Collin." 

"Just 'hey'?" 

"What?" 

"Oh, don't play deadpan with me, _Detective_ Ellison. What the hell is . . ." He waved his hand at the sofa. ". . . is this?" 

Jim glanced over at the sofa, then back at Collin, his expression not changing. He shrugged his shoulders and pushed out his bottom lip slightly. "Don't know. Good weekend, I guess." Surreptitiously, he winked at Blair. Collin rolled his eyes in disgust. 

While Jim pushed his arms into his leather jacket, Blair eased up beside him, snaking his arm around the detective's waist. Jim smiled and asked, "Will I see you tomorrow?" 

"Yeah. After lunch. But I have to work with Rafe." 

"That's okay." Jim kissed him on the cheek. "I'll still get to see you. Simon said I needed to spend more time on that case. I was holding back on helping because you . . . anyway, I'll see you tomorrow." 

Blair reached up and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. "Good night, Jim." 

"Good night, Chief. I'll call you when I get home." 

"Okay." Blair stood in the doorway for several moments, watching as his sentinel climbed down the steps to the parking lot, then reached his truck. He waved at Blair once before climbing into the cab and starting the motor. When Blair finally closed the door, Collin was standing there, his arms crossed over his chest and one auburn eyebrow raised. 

"Well?" 

"Well, what?" 

"Oh, no. Jim can play coy. You, on the other hand, have to spill it. Now. All over the floor. I want to have to clean it up later." 

Blair grinned, then shrugged his shoulders. "We . . . talked." 

"Looks like you did more than talk." 

Blair casually crossed the room to sit down on the sofa again. "No, really. That's all we did. We talked." 

Collin stood behind the sofa, his arms still crossed. "Uh-hmm." 

"No, really. We went to the Jags game, got rained on. He came over to dry out, and it just sort of . . . happened." 

"Did you sleep with him." 

"Well, yes . . . and no." 

"Oh, Blair, this is not how we're going to play this." 

"No, it's not like that. Yeah, he spent the night, but we didn't _do_ anything." 

"So what _did_ he do?" 

"He just . . . sort of . . ." Blair's voice came out soft, and his eyes grew hazy. ". . . held me." 

Collin felt something in his gut drop, but his bearded face remained chameleon-like. "And then?" 

"We spent the day together." Blair smiled. 

Finally Collin said, "He loves you." 

Blair grinned. "I know." 

"Well, I'm happy for you," Collin replied while he turned his back on his roommate, hiding his lie. "Good night." Slowly, he walked down the hallway, not hearing Blair's response, his arms still crossed over his chest. Once inside his bedroom, he collapsed in the wing chair in the corner, the darkness covering him. His chest felt cold, saddened by what he saw. Not that he didn't want Blair to be happy, and not that he didn't want Jim to come back to him. Collin had wanted that all along. But now, knowing that Ian was drifting away from him, what he wanted was to feel that again. That dopey grin. That warm-tea sensation in the stomach that said, "someone loves me, and I love him." That things were right in the world. 

But tonight, instead, he felt the comparison too hard. Blair and Jim, the bliss growing again. Once he had known that. In the dark, he could still make out the shape of the bedside table, holding Brian's photograph, hidden in the drawer. But that happiness had been ripped away from him. His one chance at it. Now forever gone. 

Never to come back again. 

* * *

Henri Brown sipped from his styrofoam cup of coffee, then glanced over at Rafe. Brown checked his watch, but he'd been doing that every five minutes and the time still didn't advance any faster. For a few minutes, he debated saying anything to Rafe, before finally he realized that he needed to. "Hey, look, man, I . . . really appreciate you coming out here tonight. You know you didn't have to." 

Rafe gave him a reluctant smile as he rested his head against the passenger side window. "No problem." He sighed. "Didn't have any plans anyway." 

Henri gripped the steering wheel a couple of times, staring out in the darkened street. Across from them, in this brick canyon of halogen lights and shadows, lay the entrance to Raul Martinez's "club," for lack of a better word. A small bar where Martinez's men met, and above, his office. Henri and Rafe had been tracking his movements for months now, but the university killings had drawn Rafe's attention away. Brown was a little miffed by the whole affair. Rafe was _his_ partner, and although he kept it to himself because he genuinely liked Blair, he still resented Simon for putting Blair at Rafe's side instead. 

"So what's it like working with Hairboy," Brown said, disguising his resentment well. 

Rafe smiled, almost bashfully, and that caused Brown to twist his mouth in frustration. "He's actually great to work with. I can see now why Jim puts up with him." 

"That so?" 

"Yeah, he's really sharp. And funny. And he puts this Simms woman to shame. He's always coming up with theories and all Simms can do is shoot 'em down." Rafe drank from his coffee. 

"Uh-huh." 

"I don't know what to think about this Kelly Simms." 

"You thinking about asking her out?" Brown asked with a teasing laugh. 

"No!" 

"What? You been working with Hairboy too long?" 

Rafe shot him a withering glance that instantly chilled Henri. He wasn't quite sure how to react to Rafe's sudden iciness, and the two men remained in silence for a long while. After an awkward moment, Brown pointed to the opposite sidewalk. Strutting down the sidewalk, dressed in yellow windbreakers, five young men joked and shoved one another as they approached Martinez's club. 

Rafe guessed they were in their late teens or early twenties -- Hispanic men it seemed from this distance, and by their colors, obvious members of the Bouricos gang. "Looks like you were right. They are in with Martinez." 

"Holy shit!" Henri fumbled with his coffee as he tried to set it down in the dashboard's holder. Then he slapped Rafe on the upper arm before pointing to an alley way next to Martinez's club. "Where the hell did she come from?" 

Standing perfectly still, a woman, dressed all in white -- a revealingly short white skirt, white suit jacket, and a large wide-brimmed white hat trimmed in black, waited for the men as they approached. Black sunglasses disguised her face. One of the gang members spotted her, and they all stopped, somewhat shocked by her appearance in such a grungy area at night. Like a spider, she crooked her finger, waving to them, drawing them closer. And with a grace that neither Rafe or Brown could imagine, she slowly turned, her legs scissoring into the dark alley where she disappeared. 

The gang stood motionless for a moment, then suddenly all five men sparked on the same idea. With a rush, they stampeded towards the dark alley after her. 

"This ain't good," Henri mumbled as he opened the door. 

"Hold on. I'm coming with you." 

In the alley, the mysterious woman's white outfit glowed a pale blue, marking her presence easily. She stood frozen at the end of the alley, her left hand angled on her hip, her right hand drawn across her midsection, one leg elegantly crossing the other at the ankle. The young men paused for a moment, scenting something odd, and they slowly stepped closer. 

"Hello, boys," she said huskily. 

The oldest gang member took two steps closer. "What you want, lady?" 

"I want you to die," she answered. Suddenly her right arm snapped as she flung something at him. His hands jerked spastically and he clutched at his neck. He spun around to his friends for aid, and when they saw his throat gashed open, blood spilling onto his yellow coat, all four men reached for their guns. Henri and Rafe both unholstered their weapons. "Freeze! Cascade P.D.!" 

The officers could only gape in amazement as they witnessed a lone dark figure drop from the side of the brick wall like a phantom. Dressed all in black, he brandished a short, thin sword that flashed white in the dim light. Without warning, he stabbed the young man who stood closest to the wall directly into his heart. 

He moved with lightning quick steps, so fast that Henri and Rafe had little time to fire. As his first victim fell, the killer twisted in a vicious pirouette, dropping down to avoid his second victim's gun. His sword slashed through both of the gang member's legs as though they were smoke. Waving his arms, screaming in panic, the second man slid off his lower legs and fell towards the ground. Henri and Rafe stuggled to gain a clear shot, but the killer's speed was unimaginably quick, and the gang members blocked their aim. 

Unrelenting and merciless, his movements preternaturally fast, the swordsman sliced through the third man's neck, clipping off his head in one clean swipe, before he angled the blade with a sharp cut behind him, catching the second man in the heart as he tumbled backwards off his amputated limbs. 

Screaming in terror, the last gang member dashed away from them, and in horror Rafe watched as the woman in white snapped her right arm again. This time, the detective saw something small and black fly through the air. The last man arched his back, his eyes wide with fear, then he took two more steps before falling to the ground. The killer in black somersaulted, landed in front of the young man, and stabbed his sword into the gang member's skull. 

When he did, both Rafe and Brown clearly saw the assassin's long black ponytail whip in the air. 

"I said, freeze!" Rafe shouted again, his right finger finally gripping the trigger. 

Black animalistic eyes pierced Rafe. The black-dressed warrior instantly stretched his body low, one knee angled, bent into his chest while his other leg extended far to the side for balance. Glancing up, Rafe saw the woman fling another object at them. Brian fired, and both killers shifted slightly, as if they could see the bullet coming towards them. 

"Ah, shit!" Brown spat as he gripped his upper arm. In a split-second, Rafe saw the strange, circular weapon embedded in Brown's bicep -- like a black sun -- with wide, curved razors radiating from the metal center. Instinctively, Rafe ducked as he pulled his partner against the brick wall. Behind the cover of the corner, Rafe aimed his pistol into the dark and fired three times before ducking back. 

Silence, except for his gasping breath. 

He quickly peeked around the side of the wall, then looked again, more slowly. 

There was no one there. 

Turning back to his partner, Rafe felt his gut drop when he saw Brown staring blindly forward, unnaturally still. "Brown? Brown? Henri!" Rafe snatched his cell phone from his pocket and dialed for an ambulance, his hands shaking too badly from fright. 

* * *

Drenched in a cold, clammy sweat, Blair jerked hard, waking himself. In a panicked daze, he kicked away the sheets that tangled around his legs. His lungs gasped for breath. And just as his brain filed away the wicked dream images -- frightening mirages of two black dogs tearing into his gut -- a second realization bloomed in his mind -- one even more scary -- what the dreams actually meant.. 

Blair stumbled out of the bed, his sleepy legs wiggling so awkwardly that he had to cling to the side of the mattress, and then the wall, to keep from falling over. Dogs. Black dogs. And Sebastian's warning echoing in his memory. 

"Oh my god," he whispered, fighting to speak. "Oh my god oh my god oh my god --" 

* * *

With dark circles under his eyes, Blair walked into the Major Crimes bullpen at six a.m. He had been unable to sleep, the horrid images of the black dogs holding him down while they tore at his throat haunting him each time he closed his eyes. But more importantly, Blair felt vulnerable and he needed to feel safe, and the only real place he knew he would be unharmed was in the very center of the police station. As he threw down his backpack, he noticed Simon's door open and Jim sitting in one of Simon's chairs, his chin resting on his fist. 

Very slowly, Blair approached Simon's office. Jim didn't pick up on his presence, didn't hear him or smell him, until finally, he felt Blair's hand on his shoulder. 

"Oh. Hey, Chief." 

"You're here early." Then he noticed Simon standing at the small coffee maker near his desk. 

"We haven't gone home yet," Simon answered. "What happened?" 

"We just got back from the hospital," Jim said with a hoarse voice. 

"Hospital?" 

"Brown's in a coma." 

"Whoa! How did this happen?" 

"We don't know yet," Simon answered as he sat down in his chair. He was too tired to think to offer Blair any coffee. "Rafe's there, too. Under sedation." 

"Sedation?" 

"Never seen anything like it. The man's scared shitless. Going on about ninjas and too scared to turn his back on anyone. And I had two of my best officers out there and they only got four shots fired." He shook his head in disbelief. 

"Oh no." Blair felt his knees go weak. 

"What's wrong, Chief. What are you doing here so early? The sun's not even up yet." 

"I had another dream," he whispered. 

"What kind of dream?" 

"The dogs." 

Jim turned his blue eyes towards him, darkened with a taste of anxiety. He touched a finger to his chest and mouthed a silent, "Me?" 

Blair closed the door behind him and sat down in the chair next to Jim. "No, it's not you. Bass told me, right before he . . ." Blair poked himself in the arm, ". . . you know. Anyway, he said the dreams were a sign, that guides had them whenever the Order . . . targeted either one of us. I tried to call you last night. I didn't know what else to do." 

"I was at the hospital with Simon." 

"I even tried your cell phone." 

Jim wrinkled his eyebrows, then pulled his cell phone from the clip on his belt. He checked his calls, and there was Blair's number. Closing his eyes, he whispered, "You did call me. I guess I had the ringer turned off. I'm sorry about that, Chief." 

"The Order?" Simon barked. "You mean that woman Didion Sachs' killed at the dedication ceremony?" 

Jim stared at his captain. "What Rafe was saying -- the man with the sword -- the woman. It has to be them." 

"Rafe was out of his mind when they got to him. Kept saying something about a ghost and a ninja." 

"Ninja -- Bass said the Order was so dangerous at hand-to-hand combat that that was the reason the Project created sentinels -- so they could kill them from a distance. And he said the one who attacked him in New York cut him with a sword across the chest." 

"Rafe said one of them had a sword. And he said they moved so fast that he didn't really have time to fire." Jim reached for the folder on Simon's desk. He opened the file and handed it to Blair. "They found these, too." He pointed to a picture of the metal sunstar, the wicked curved razors still red with blood. "The lab's trying to figure out what kind of poison the blades are dipped in. Whatever it is, it put Brown into a coma." 

Flipping the page, Blair saw the first photograph -- the decapitated victim -- before he slapped the file closed and tossed it on Simon's desk. "Jim, what do they want?" 

"I don't know." 

Simon spoke out, "Well what they did was start a gang war. We can only assume that either Martinez or the Bouricos or maybe both of them think one of the local Asian gangs pulled this off -- what with all this ninja nonsense. So far, two Chinese businesses got torched early this morning. And I can't very well get on TV and say some super-secret-conspiracy-ninja-bullshit-group is responsible." 

"Jim, they're playing with us," Blair said. 

"They don't even know who we are, Chief." "Why else would they start a gang war? What better way than that to totally distract us." 

"Chief, didn't you say that Bass told you these guys were involved in organized crime?" 

"Well, yeah." 

"So maybe they're just out to punish Martinez." 

"But what about these dreams?" 

Jim sighed hard. He wanted desperately to come up with another reason, another answer. The last thing he wanted after dealing with Didion Sachs and Project 57 was The Order. Some other rack of demons with a diaphanous past hunting him simply because of the genetic crapshot that was his birth. But more than that, he couldn't stand the thought of Blair being scared, not when their relationship was already so tenuous. Finally, Jim asked, "Is there someone we can talk to?" 

Blair thought for a while and then he remembered. "Miriam. She wouldn't talk to us after the dedication ceremony. Maybe she'll talk to us now." 

* * *

Concluded in 4/4.

Link to text version:


	4. Chapter 4

This story has been split into four parts for easier loading.

## Huntsman, What Quarry, Part I

by Kadru

Author's webpage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Author's notes and disclaimer can be found in part one. 

* * *

Hunstman, What Quarry?, Part I - 4/4 

A young man stopped short of the polished wooden doors that led into the exercise chambers and ran his long-fingered hand through his blond hair. Perth listened for a moment to the clashing of steel, then twisted the brass doorknob. He waited for a moment as he observed Burlington moving gracefully around his opponent. He wore only black silk pants, and his thick chestnut hair rose and fell with his movements. Only a slight sheen of sweat glistened on his bare skin. His muscular arms shot back and forth, exchanging the sharp, sixteen-inch blade as though juggling. His attack pattern seemed lightning fast and at the same time, erratic and random. All the while, his eyes were strangely vacant, and the expression on his face stony and distant. 

But so were his opponent's. His own blade seemed to sing in the air as he twirled it madly around his body, deflecting the blistering attack with the same emotionless calm. 

Neither man seemed to notice Perth enter the room, even though Burlington's assistant knew that they had on an instinctual level. Perth waited a moment longer, respecting their practice as more than just martial skill, but artistic expression as well. Finally, he knew he needed to break their trances. He reached for a small wooden hammer and tapped it against a silver tube that hung from the wall. The musical note caused both men to stop. 

Burlington blinked once, then turned to Perth without expression. Both he and his opponent bowed to each other before moving apart and walking away. As Burlington came forward, Perth handed him a white towel. "Your grace." 

Burlington wiped his face with the towel before saying mechanically, "What do you have for me?" 

Perth handed him the document. The young assistant could tell the master assassin was reading the paper by the movement of his eyes, but the lines of his face remained motionless and unchanging as the news sunk in. "Call New Orleans," he said softly as he crumbled the announcement. "I want to speak to Sedan about this." 

As Burlington stepped away from his young assistant, he absently brushed the white towel in his hand across his thick brown chest hair. As he stood at the expansive wall of windows overlooking Seattle, he let his jade eyes scan the city, the dark metallic water of the sound, and in the far distance, the Olympic Mountains on the peninsula. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, his arms crossed, lost in speculative thought, when suddenly Perth was beside him, holding up a cellular phone. "Your grace?" 

"Thank you, Perth." Then he spoke into the phone. "This is Burlington." 

The assassin heard, "One moment, your grace. I'll patch you through now." 

A few moments later, Burlington heard someone say, "This is Sedan." 

"Sedan, it's Burlington." 

"Yes, my brother." 

"I just received the news on Austin, Texas." 

"Sachs' men were successful. The Project's complex is theirs now." 

"Did your centurions assist them?" Burlington asked. 

"Yes. But I don't think the Rangers realized it." 

"That wasn't a good idea." 

"It also wasn't mine. I followed the Diamond Council's orders. To the letter." 

"Didion Sachs is up to something. I can smell it. I can't believe the council is helping him, however indirectly." 

"The enemy of our enemy, Burlington. That's what they're thinking. Any assistance to this mutiny will just weaken the Americans." 

"Or let a stronger beast out of its cage." 

"Well, aren't you the Amethyst who's been ordered to find that out?" Sedan asked coyly. 

Burlington's dark brown eyebrows narrowed dangerously. "Yes, but I'm constrained by the Council's timeline. I can't unleash my centurions now." 

"Sounds to me like someone needs to find a way around that timeline." 

Burlington stared into the distance. "Yes. It does." 

* * *

"I'm not about to let you push me out of here in that thing," Rafe spat as he pointed to the wheelchair before shoving his arms into his suit jacket. 

"But sir," the nurse began, "this is hospital policy." 

"Forget it. I've humiliated myself enough as it is without having to endure _that_. So why don't you go hustle yourself off and get me a damn AMA form to sign if you have to. I'm not sitting in that wheelchair." 

Blair and Jim walked into Rafe's room just as Brian had finished his rant. 

"Sir, I hear this all the time. You _will_ sit in this thing." 

Rafe grabbed the wheelchair from her, lifting it above his head, his muscular chest bulging as he did. He dropped the chair on his bed, then grabbed the metal guard rails. With a loud grunt, he slammed the silver guards into place, jamming the handles of the wheelchair against the bed frame. "Now," he said angrily, "while you figure out how to get that thing free, I'll be on my way." 

The nurse squinted her eyes in fury as she stormed out of the room. 

Blair eyed the detective suspiciously. "Brian, are you all right?" 

"Obviously not, Sandburg," he barked. "I've just about made a complete fool of myself and I want this day to end." 

"Hey, Brian, don't be so hard on yourself. You freaked out, man. Everyone freaks out once in an while." 

"Well everyone's not like you, Sandburg." 

Jim instantly squared his shoulders. Rafe didn't notice him. He only noticed the piercing expression in Blair's eyes. "Shit," Rafe mumbled, rubbing his face. "Blair, I'm really, really sorry, man." 

"That's okay," Blair said as he looked away, but his tone of voice couldn't cover his feelings. 

"No, I mean it. I'm . . . I'm ashamed of how I acted last night and I'm taking it out on everyone and . . . and I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to say that. Please." 

Blair gave him a closed mouth smile. "That's okay, man. I understand." 

"How's H?" Rafe asked to change the subject. 

"We just got back from his room. He came out of his coma a while ago." 

Rafe ran his hand down Blair's arms. "Thanks. I'm on my way to sit with him." 

"Rafe, why don't you go home instead. Get some rest?" 

Rafe motioned too the bed. "What do you think I've been doing? No, I'm going to wait for my partner . . . and don't start with me, Blair, you'd be doing the same thing if Jim were in the hospital." 

* * *

At the far end of the hallway, very distant from the lab where the researchers kept the supply of serum, Kiegan angled his body so that he could look inside. He couldn't see into the room because of the tight corner of the doorway, but he could make out the reflections off the polished, stainless-steel cabinets. He drilled down his vision on these reflections, and he watched one researcher, the one from Didion's Manhattan facility. He was not part of the Project, and even though Kiegan had no love for the Project, he certainly didn't trust this doctor. 

Alone in the lab, the young doctor glanced around the room. He waited a moment, then lifted one of the covers on a tray containing vials that Kiegan knew well. Their supply of the serum that kept their bodies from developing cancer. Quickly, the doctor turned the vial up, pierced the rubber skin and loaded a needle. Then, he returned the vial to its tray. Again, he looked around, before approaching a second vial. 

Kiegan read the vial's label, even though backwards -- SACHS. 

The doctor injected the serum into the new treatment, shook it, then placed it back on Didion's tray. 

Kiegan's eyebrows narrowed dangerously. 

He took one step towards the lab, when he heard a sound that chilled his soul. 

Immediately Kiegan ran to the lodge room, and when he entered, he saw several other guides standing around, their arms crossed, looking at horror at the broken man sitting in one of the over-stuffed chairs. Sebastian had collapsed, the flat of his palms pressed into his eyes, rocking back and forth. Quickly Kiegan ran to him, kneeling down in front of him and squeezing his shoulders. "Bass, what's wrong?" 

"He . . . he won't move . . ." 

Kiegan felt his stomach cramp. 

"And . . . he's so . . . cold." 

Taking the slender man in his arms, Kiegan opened up his hearing, praying for a heartbeat. 

Only silence. 

He brushed his hand through Sebastian's soft hair. Then he heard one simple heartbeat. 

Pulling away, he looking into Sebastian's red-rimmed eyes. "Bass, he's not dead yet. I can hear his heart beating." 

"But it's happening, Kiegan." 

"Don't say that. Come on, let's go back in there." He pulled Sebastian from the chair. 

"I just . . . I can't do it. I can't watch this happen." 

"Bass, don't say this." 

"I . . . don't want to remember him like this." Tears fell down his cheeks. 

Taking a deep, sympathetic breath, Kiegan brushed his brown hands across his friend's face. "Bass, listen to me. Listen. One day, I went out on a simple three day mission. Just three days. When I left Sam, I didn't think anything about it. He was safe. I'd see him again." Kiegan had to swallow the lump in his throat to go on. "But when I came home, he was dead. He died . . without me." 

Sebastian tried to pull away, but Kiegan held him tight. 

"Bass, I'd give anything. My eyes. My tongue. My fingertips. Anything. If I could just have . . . held him . . . when he went." He held up Sebastian's chin. "Do you understand? He needs you. He needs the last words he hears to be yours, and to know that you love him. And you need to be there. If not for right now, for your conscience in the future. Okay?" 

He pulled Sebastian towards Didion's room. Neither said a word, but once they entered, Kiegan sighed. Didion lay on his back, his open eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. His eye sockets had turned dark blue and were sunken. When Kiegan heard his friend's sluggish heartbeats, he could also see Didion's lungs gasping weakly for air. "Just . . . hold his hand, okay?" 

Sebastian nodded, his chest aching and his throat clamped shut. Kiegan reached for the emergency button near Didion's bed. In moments, a doctor rushed in. "Didion's heart is stopping. Keep it going," Kiegan commanded. "I'll be right back." 

* * *

Finding Miriam's office phone number had taken some time. Blair tracked down the community college where she worked after calling the registrar's office at Rainier. He figured of all the departments on campus, that would be the one most likely to have at hand the phone numbers of all the other nearby colleges. Then he had to track her down through the central operator, and finally to her office. At last, he heard her sharp New York accent say, "This is Miriam Frohmeir." 

"Miriam, it's Blair." 

A pregnant pause, then, "Oh, hello, Blair. How are you?" 

"I'm not sure. What about you?" 

"I'm holding together. The drugs help." 

Blair wasn't quite sure what to say to that. "Miriam, we need your help." 

"I don't know . . ." she answered. 

Blair furrowed his brows. He hadn't even told her what he needed. 

"Miriam, I know a lot went down when you were here, and I don't want to dredge all that up again, but we need to know about Beverly Cordova. You were the only one to work closely with her. We need to know about her." 

"Blair, please don't get me involved in this --" 

"We know that she was involved in a group called The Order --" 

"Blair, stop it! You don't understand! She said they knew where my mother lives! She said they could have her killed and, and, and General Velarde said they were everywhere and I can't do this! I can't talk about it!" 

With that, she hung up the phone. 

Letting out a defeated sigh, Blair ran his fingers across his eyebrows. 

"What is it, Chief?" 

"She won't talk about it. She knows who The Order is, at least I think she does, but she said they had threatened to kill her mother if she talked." Underneath Jim's desk, Blair squeezed Jim's hand hard. "I don't like this." 

"Me, either, Chief. Me, either." 

"What are we going to do?" 

"Wait. Keep up our guard." 

* * *

Collin paused for a moment outside the English Department. The air was crisp and cold, and for once, the clouds had parted. Sunlight warmed the stone buildings and sidewalks, making the mix of warm surroundings and cool air stirring. He breathed deeply and couldn't resist a smile. Collin loved this time of year, when the few deciduous trees in the area burst into color. It reminded him of the South during this time -- only there were countless more trees with vibrant colors. And there was something about the temperature and the smell of the air -- and the slant of light \-- that called to mind his younger days. 

/Like a madeline in lemon tea,/ he mused before stepping off the stone steps and into the quadrangle. 

This time of year always made him nostalgic, thinking back to those days when he was a naive undergrad, returning to campus in the fall. The irony that for the rest of civilization, spring represented new beginnings while fall meant a gradual fading, rested lightly on his heart. For him, the seasons had flipped, and autumn symbolized new beginnings -- starting the school year over again -- meeting new classmates -- the promise and hope of new loves that would unfold during the year -- new friendships developing -- new adventures and new times to laugh and fresh academic achievements. Plus, there was a feeling of being carefree and boisterous -- reading Wallace Stevens under the golden fan-shaped leaves of a gingko tree -- writing surreptitiously in the margins of his notebooks a well-phrased line -- massaging his brain with Nietzsche's aphorisms. 

Running wild with Sebastian, his cousin, and Miriam, their closest friend, smoking joints in the chapel, then dancing to R.E.M. or the B-52's underneath the dappled canopies of massive oaks. 

And with every autumn, Collin's nostalgia tangled with a wealth of sadness and regret -- a texture that folded and draped heavier each year as he grew older and time catalogued further events and happenings into the resume of his life. Oh, how he would cut off years from his life if only he could go back -- go back to those days when they would laze around in the student center, the three of them, drinking wretched coffee and chain-smoking cigarettes just to watch the milky drafts twist and curl around their elegant hands. To feel once again the delicious burst of epiphany in his mind and heart as he discovered some new melodic sentence in Faulkner's works, or to feel the rejected anger in Diane Wakowski burn righteously in him, or to comprehend the wicked humor in David Hume's cynical philosophy. To be that again . . . 

Before Sebastian's first boyfriend had committed suicide, before his wild-hearted cousin had succumbed to the tidal shift of guilt and loss that swamped his spirit. 

When Miriam's sharp-tongued wit was even sharper . . . 

Before they had moved to Atlanta and were forced to become adults. 

Before Collin had allowed himself to be seduced by Brian. 

Before Didion had appeared, sleeping with Brian, sleeping with Sebastian, flushing both men out of Collin's life like a covey of startled quail and leaving him undone and alone. Before, in grief, Collin had set fire to the old farmhouse that he and Brian had restored, hungering for sati. Until recently, he had clung to the romantic hope that Brian had been the one to risk the scorching flames to save Collin's life, but that was no longer the case -- Didion had done it. And now Collin carried those scars not only on his back but in his psyche as well. 

He strolled down the sidewalk, aiming for the red maples, wanting to feel their color rather than the drab conifers. His mind sifted through his memories, all of them rushing by in a feathery montage as he focused on the tall sky. His dark denim trench coat flowed smoothly behind him like a cape. 

For almost a minute, he didn't notice the man walking beside him, matching his stride, his long black hair floating in the breeze along with his leather duster. "Are you in there?" Nic finally asked with a good-natured smile. 

"Oh . . . Sorry. I'm in my own little world." 

"Looks like a happy place." 

Collin smiled. "Yes. It was." He swept his hand in an arc, drawing Nic's attention to the trees. "This weather. Always makes me a little nostalgic." He started walking again, and Nic followed him down the path. 

"What does it remind you of?" 

"Of undergrad. Those were good memories. Don't get me wrong, I didn't have two pennies to rub together and I certainly didn't have a pot to piss in, but good god, did we ever laugh." 

"Your friends?" 

"My cousin, mostly. Bass." 

"His name was Bass?" 

"Sebastian. I miss him. Or rather, I miss who he was then." 

"That sounds like a story." 

"Bass? Yes . . . a trouble-twisted tale." 

"Where is he now? Do you get to see him?" 

Collin shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know where he is." 

"For real?" 

"Yeah, for real. He and his lover disappeared not too long ago." 

"You don't mean . . . these students who were just . . ." 

"Oh no," Collin replied. "Nothing like that. They're on the run from something. It's a long story." 

"Oh. I see." 

"What about you? Don't you get nostalgic in fall? Thoughts of fall semester?" 

"Me? No. I went to Arizona, so fall wasn't like this." 

Collin stopped underneath the shadow of a tall cedar, and he leaned his back against its shaggy trunk. "You never talk about yourself." 

"Not much to tell," Nic replied as he stood in front of Collin. 

"Blair says you don't have a boyfriend." 

"No. No, I don't." 

"Ever?" 

"There've been a few. They always end badly." 

Collin huffed a quick laugh. "Don't I know it?" Then he added whistfully, "That's all too fresh in my mind these days." 

Nic's deep-timbred voice whispered, "I'm sorry to hear that." He reached out and stroked Collin's cheek with his knuckles. Taken off guard, Collin didn't react except to close his eyes slightly in response to the erotic feel of Nic's warm touch. Very slowly, Nic moved closer, closer, until finally his dry lips pressed against Collin's, then opened. 

Collin's mind remarked on the taste of the man -- spicy -- like cinnamon or nutmeg -- sweet and biting -- as he let Nic's moist tongue enter his mouth and claim him. The southerner had experienced a wide range of men in his life, but no one had ever kissed him with the skill and dexterity that Nic did -- Collin felt like a passive instrument under Nic's direction as emotion and pleasure swirled in a marbled pattern. He lifted his hand against Nic's chest and felt the body heat from his skin and how intoxicating it was. The muscles there gave only slightly before turning into an unyielding stone. He wanted to push Nic away, but feeling the erotic strength and entranced by his sensuous kiss, Collin allowed the intimacy to continue. 

Nic finally broke the kiss, pulling back. A wicked, conspiratorial grin spread across his handsome face. 

"Nic?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Don't ever do that again." 

"W-w-what?" 

"Nic, I'm with Ian." 

"I . . . I didn't think you wanted to be with him any more." 

Collin froze. Someone else, an outsider, had noticed their problems. Just knowing that a third-party had seen it made their crumbling relationship seem objective and true. "N - no. No, that's not . . ." he sighed. "I don't know what I want. But right now, Ian and I are still together, and I'm not going to ever hurt him like that. Not after the hell I've been through. I'd never treat another person the way I've been treated." 

Nic pulled away, his face a hard mask but the emotions pouring from his eyes. "I . . . what am I doing wrong?" 

"Nic, you aren't doing anything wrong." 

"Aren't I? Neither you nor Blair are interested. Is it something about me?" 

"Nic, stop it." Collin placed his hand on Nic's shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with you . . . except for bad timing. Jim is trying hard to get Blair back, and me, well, I'm still with Ian for now." 

Nic closed his eyes, suppressing his emotions. "Whatever." He took several slow steps away at first, before his stride quickened and he left Collin alone under the shade of the cedar tree. 

* * *

That night Blair paused outside the loft door, a little nervous. He had fretted during the entire drive over, wondering if he had the guts to do this. To step back inside this loft. But he knew he had to. The longer he and Jim spent time together, the more certain he was that they belonged with each other. There were other couples who had survived worse complications -- surely he was sharp enough, wise enough, and compassionate enough to endure their own ups and downs. 

At the same time, he knew Jim would have already heard his heartbeat waiting outside the door. /No sense making him worry./ Blair knocked on the door and waited. 

Jim opened the door, and the first thing Blair noticed was the heat coming from the loft. Immediately he stripped off his coat, then his sweater. He pressed a chaste kiss on Jim's lips and asked, "Jim, man, what's up with the heat?" 

"Just setting the mood. We're having a picnic." "A what?" Blair noticed that Jim was only wearing jeans, his baseball cap, and a tight white tee-shirt that hugged the curves of his chest. 

"I've been banking the fire all day to get it this hot." 

Stepping further inside, Blair was overpowered by the smell of artificial pine. Then he noticed all the dark green candles spread out around the loft. "This isn't making you sick?" 

"What?" 

"The smell, man?" 

"Is it too strong? I've got my smell dialed all the way down." 

Blair finally broke into laughter. "Jim, what are you doing?" 

"Well, I wanted the forest smell if we're supposed to have a picnic." He slipped into the kitchen. "Took me all day to find the candles, though. You know how hard that is? I mean, all I could find was this country floral, lavender, raspberry-fart crap. Grab a beer, why don't you?" 

Looking around, Blair noticed the furniture had been pushed back, leaving the hardwood floor in front of the fireplace open. Jim had spread a red checkered blanket, and not far away had set down a metal bucket filled with ice and bottles of beer chilling. Scratching his head, Blair decided to figure out what was going on first. He stepped into the kitchen behind Jim, then reached around to feel his forehead for a temperature. 

"What?" Jim spun around. 

"Are you okay, Jim?" 

"I'm fine, why?" 

"This is just so not like you?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"The heat. The smell. Are you okay?" 

Jim dropped his nonchalant, deadpan act and grew serious. With his hands on Blair's shoulders, he said, "I know this is tough for you, Chief, you know, being here. So I tried to think of something that would be . . . I don't know . . . stupid and lighthearted. I figured if we did something stupid like this, that you'd have a happier memory than . . ." he looked down at his feet. "Than the ones you have." 

Blair noticed as he stood beside Jim in the kitchen that the sentinel had closed the glass french doors to his former bedroom. The guide could have peered into his old room if he tried, if he made the effort and worked his sight through the reflections, but at least he was spared from a casual glance. It touched him slightly, to think that Jim was being so considerate. Turning, Blair chose to observe Jim working gracefully in the kitchen. He could hear the fragile, paper-like crackling of the fire. And the whispers of the knifeblade on the wooden cutting block as Jim sliced fresh vegetables for a salad. The small sounds seemed loud and omnipresent. 

Then, he realized, there was no music. 

Blair placed his hands on Jim's flanks. It felt good, feeling Jim's skin, his body heat, his shifting, hard muscles. With a smile, Jim glanced behind him, then gave Blair a sweet peck on the cheek before going back to his cutting. 

"You don't have the stereo going," Blair said. 

Jim stopped for a moment and realized that he hadn't. And for a reason. "Yeah . . . well . . . I didn't see anything I wanted to listen to." 

"What? In all those CD's." 

Jim waited before he replied. "Most of those CD's were yours." 

The confession stopped Blair cold. Finally he mouthed a soft, "Oh." 

"But you can look if you want. See if I have something you like." 

With some determination to prove Jim wrong, Blair crossed the loft to the stereo and opened the bottom cabinet where they stored their CDs. Then he noticed it -- how Jim's CD collection was broken by wide gaps. Standing there, the realization struck him. /Jim never reorganized after I left. He left all the spaces where my CDs used to be./ The blank spaces between the CDs on the rack only spurred his mind to other thoughts. /Holes. They look like holes. Did he leave them there in some hope that I might come back? Like a prayer? Or did he leave them like scars? To remind him. To haunt him./ 

Gradually, Blair became aware of Jim's warm, heavy hands on his shoulders. 

"You okay, Chief?" 

"You . . . never reorganized your CDs?" 

After some silence, Jim whispered behind Blair, "It . . . hurt too much." 

At his words, guilt caused Blair to sag back against his sentinel's chest. 

Jim noticed the reaction, and his fingers reached for the stereo. "We can listen to the radio, instead." 

As a comfortable, relaxing jazz tune filtered the air, Blair tried to change the subject. "So what are we having for this picnic?" 

"I'm broiling some hot dogs. And I bought some potato salad, too." Jim opened the oven door, and with a fork turned the hot dogs. Once finished, he then rummaged through the refrigerator, grabbing the ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise and relish. 

"What, no onions?" 

"I'm not kissing you after you've been eating onions." 

"Who said anything about kissing tonight?" 

Jim's spine immediately snapped into a rigid line and he looked at Blair with a hurt, confused expression. Realizing that they were both still too sensitive to take this kind of teasing, Blair gave Jim a soft, closed mouth smile before coming closer. He pressed his lips to Jim, moving them softly, inviting his tongue to slip inside. Jim closed the refrigerator door and swept Blair into his arms, kissing him hungrily, possessing him, forcing him back until Blair's back jammed against the countertop. He had yet to make love to Blair, had yet to even touch him between his legs, but the hunger was there. Oh, it was there. 

Even more strongly, Jim burned to have Blair back with him, in his home, just for the chance to return each day with aching muscles and a tired soul to find him here, waiting for him. With the radio too loud, playing some raucous tribal music. With the pot boiling over on the stove, stinking up the loft with some weird concoction. With essays and exams spread out across the hardwood floor like a paper landslide. He held Blair close, drinking in this intimacy and begging time to stop. They kissed for several minutes, trading tongues back and forth, until finally Blair pulled away. "Don't want you to burn our dinner," Blair said with a faint smile. 

Jim sighed, letting the pleasure and the disappointment flow through his muscles before he kissed Blair on the forehead. "You go ahead and set things up on the blanket. I'll bring the food out." 

Blair removed two plates from the cabinet and grabbed silverware. As the music spilled across the flat spaces of the room, Blair felt himself relaxing. The banks of flickering candlelight eased his spirits even more, and he found himself grinning as his eyes discovered all the different candles spread out across the room. When he felt Jim's hand pressing on his shoulder, Blair returned his thoughts to Jim and looked up to see Jim using Blair's body for leverage while squatting down. Blair noticed that Jim had already put the food down but he wasn't sure when. A platter of hot dogs. Condiments in small bowls. 

"I can't believe you did this." 

"What, do you think this is stupid or something?" 

"Silly. I think I'll hand you silly." 

"Good," Jim said as he picked up his first hot dog. "That's what it's supposed to be." He shoved the hot dog into his mouth, his first bite so big that it stuffed out his cheeks like a squirrel. 

Blair broke into his first laugh. 

"Wha?" Jim could barely mouth. 

"Nothing man." He spread ketchup and mustard over his first hot dog, then laughed lightly again. "I can't believe we're doing this?" 

"You don't like it?" 

He shook his head with a dazzling smile. "No, I certainly can't say that. Just a . . . pleasant surprise, that's all." 

"Good." 

They bit into their hot dogs, and Blair winked at Jim. "Say hello, hot dog," he said. 

Both men opened their mouths wide like a couple of ten year olds, proudly displaying their half-chewed meals and mumbling in unison -- "Hello, hot dog!" 

The simple meal passed easily with childish jokes and laughter. After finishing their hot dogs and salads, Jim collected the plates and the remaining food. "Stay there," he commanded Blair when he noticed his guide start to get up to join him. Jim dropped the dishes in the sink and ran water over them. As he came back from the kitchen, Blair noticed a paper sack and two metal coat hangers. 

"What now?" 

Jim motioned to the fireplace. "Can't waste a good campfire, now, can we?" 

"You didn't." 

The sentinel spilled the contents of the sack onto the blanket -- Hershey's chocolate bars, packets of graham crackers, and a clear bag of marshmallows. A wicked smirk spread across Jim's face, and he said, "I did." He wiggled his eyebrows. With easy dexterity Jim unwound the metal coat hangers until they both had metal stakes to roast their marshmallows. Blair quickly thrust his into the fire until it burst into flame. "You have no patience, Chief," Jim laughed as he opened the chocolate and crackers. 

"You just figuring that out, Jim?" Blair pulled out the blackened marshmallow, slapped it between two crackers, then popped it into his mouth. 

Roasting marshmallows almost became a duel, as Blair teased Jim about how anal he was acting, holding the marshmallow so far from the flame, slowing cooking it until the marshmallow skin had a rich amber tone. Sometimes Blair would "accidentally" poke Jim's metal skewer too close to the flame just to hear his protests. "I like mine brown, Chief. Not blackened." 

"Jim, this is how you're supposed to eat them." He held out a finished smore to Jim, but as Jim tried to fight him off, Blair's fingers pressed too hard on the crackers, squeezing melted chocolate and marshmallow creme onto Jim's tee shirt. 

Jim's eyebrows rose as he stared down at the brown and white mess on his shirt. "You planned that, didn't you, tiger?" With one erotic sweep, Jim stripped off the tee shirt. 

"It was an accident." 

The sentinel winked at him. "Sure it was." Skewering another marshmallow, Jim leaned forward. Blair couldn't stop staring at the body he had come to know so well, the hairless chest, the defined muscles, the hardened stomach, the dark patches of hair under his arms. He remembered how he had spent so many nights, holding onto that body, bringing Jim to climax. 

Sitting beside him, Jim tried not to notice the pleasant smell of Blair's pheromones that betrayed his arousal. With a grin, he stretched out his neck, closer to Blair, until finally their lips met. "I hope you're having a good time, Chief." 

"I am," Blair answered with a smile. "I am." 

"Are you feeling . . ." Jim was almost afraid to ask it. ". . . more comfortable, being here?" 

Blair nodded. "I am." He leaned forward and kissed Jim again. 

Jim retrieved his roasted marshmallow, assembled his smore in a relaxed silence, then leaned back to eat it. As he did, melted chocolate dribbled onto his bare chest. 

He was surprised when Blair's hand stretched forward, and with one finger, wiped away the chocolate, the warm tip tickling his skin. Jim smiled as he watched Blair lick the chocolate from his finger. They stared at each other for a while in silence, until Jim finally felt the need to rest his back against something. With both hands underneath the bottom edge of the loveseat, Jim pulled it closer, then sat back against it. 

With Jim's upper body stretched out, giving a better view, Blair's arousal heightened. The anthropologist noticed the last chocolate bar lying on the blanket. He picked it up, stripped away the paper wrapper, then reached for the small set of tongs they kept close to the fire. He held the foil wrapped chocolate close to the flame until the bar begin to sag. 

Leaning against the sofa, Jim only watched him, his eyebrows narrowed. He folded his arms back, resting his hands behind his head, exposing the muscular vee of his chest and shoulders. 

Blair removed the chocolate, and with his long fingers, opened the foil, testing the temperature. He dipped two fingers into the melted syrup, then without warning, painting a sweet brown stripe down the center of Jim's naked chest. Jim moaned from the heat and the sensation, as well as from the promise of something more. Blair tried not to make eye contact, but he couldn't hide the wicked smirk. Again, he dug his fingers into the chocolate and applied more to Jim's chest, decorating his nipples and marking a line down to his navel. 

Laying the chocolate aside, Blair scooted closer, snaking his arm between Jim's back and the loveseat. The warmth of Jim's body brought back pleasant memories, of nights when both of them had held each other close. Finally, he turned his dark blue eyes onto Jim, allowing himself to feel all of the emotions he had kept blocked for so long -- the sadness, the remorse, the loneliness, but more, the need he felt in his heart to return to Jim's side. 

He was rewarded with a passionate moan from Jim, his sentinel eyes softening around the edges. 

Blair held up his chocolate-stained fingers in front of Jim's lips, who instantly accepted them into his mouth, sucking on them hard until no trace of chocolate remained. When he had finished, Blair lowered his head, extending his pink tongue for his first lick. Jim shuddered under his moist touch, and he threw back his head with his eyes shut. In a daze, he felt Blair's tongue exploring his chest, licking away the chocolate. Blair's mouth closed around his nipple, and Jim shouted, "Blair!" as he slid away from the sofa, moving to lie down on the blanket. 

Hovering over him, Blair's mouth continued to suck away the chocolate until Jim said, "Uhm, Blair?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I just sat back on the chocolate bar." 

Blair laughed. "Oops." 

Slowly, Jim rolled, and with a push on his shoulder, Blair guided him further, onto his side, until he could peel the foil and chocolate from the center of Jim's back. Jim waited a moment, and then gasped as he felt Blair's hungry teeth on his spine, scraping away the chocolate, while his fingers curved around to pinch and tug on his nipple. Blair's crotch ground into Jim's rear, and the sentinel pushed back, wanting more contact with his guide. He could feel Blair's cock swollen inside his jeans, and Jim's own erection pressed painfully against his denim. By the time Blair had moved his nibbles to Jim's nape, his hand had already traveled down past Jim's firm stomach to grip his hardened shaft through the rough cloth. 

Unable to stand it any longer, Jim spun around, sweeping Blair into his arms. He covered Blair's mouth with his own, sucking on his tongue, biting on his lower lip. Blair allowed himself to be possessed by Jim's hunger and need, carried away by the intensity of his kiss, as if in this moment, Jim were trying to reclaim time and gain redemption. Blair's hand continued to work Jim's cock, finally freeing him with a skillful tug on his jeans, then unzipping him. Through his haze, Jim knew he needed to lift his hips so that Blair could release him further. 

When Blair's strong fingers gripped Jim's iron-hard shaft, Jim broke their kiss with a wide-mouthed gasp. Blair stroked him harder and faster, sucking marks onto Jim's neck. But Blair's fingers were coming on too strong, too quick, and Jim begged, "No, Blair. I'm too close. It's been too long." He received no mercy. Instead he heard Blair's lust-hot words command, "Come for me, baby. Come all over me." 

The timbre of his voice plucked at Jim's spine like a tightened steel string, and he felt his whole body clench tight in a blinding orgasm as burst after burst of semen jetted out of his shaft. Waves of sheer pleasure washed over his body and his mouth gaped in futility for breath. When it was all over, he collapsed on the blanket beside Blair, weakened and exhausted. Blair lay over him, his fingers drawing lazy designs along Jim's neck, his jaw, his nose, then his forehead. 

When Blair finally noticed Jim's ice blue eyes glittering in the light of the dying embers, he saw them wet around the edges. "What is it?" Blair asked. 

"It's nothing," Jim said. "Just that . . ." He beamed. "It feels so damn good to be in love with you." 

Blair's heart burst with sharp rays of light, and the passion appeared on his face. Jim didn't need to hear the words of Blair's response. He could read them clearly in his eyes. 

"Stay with me tonight . . . Please?" Jim begged. 

Blair answered his yes with a kiss. 

* * *

Kiegan eyed the young doctor he had seen inject the old cancer serum into Didion's new treatments. He watched him as he slunk around the room, reading charts, avoiding the two other researchers who were discussing Didion's failing health. The assassin's brown eyes narrowed with threat as he thought of this doctor. He knew that most of the researchers had been tricked into the Project, then bullied and harassed into remaining. They were good doctors, sworn to uphold life, and for the most part, he had witnessed them trying again and again against stacked odds. But to know that someone had taken years of his life learning the secrets of life, only to turn them into weapons against the sick and the vulnerable, that disgusted him. Where was the honor? /As much honor as you had yourself in all the people you killed from a distance? The witnesses who never testified? The diplomats and the soldiers? It wasn't always the Order, was it?/ 

As if to slay the guilt-demons inside him, Kiegan reached down to his boot and retrieved his massive bowie knife. The bright silver flashed in the fluorescent light, and the two researchers in the corner stopped what they were saying and watched him approach the solitary doctor standing before the island. And like a praying mantis snapping at an unsuspecting fly, Kiegan's left arm launched in a vee-motion around the young doctor's upper body. 

The thick blade slid effortlessly through the white robe, through the cloth, and cut into his back, easing between his ribs. The doctor arched his back as he felt the sharp invasion and he tried to gasp, but the metal held one of his lungs in place. Kiegan withdrew the knife slowly, then pushed it back in without causing further damage in a gruesome sexual act as he felt the man's liquid flow down the bloodline of the blade, over the black rubber hilt, and onto his palm. 

Kiegan left the blade inside the man's chest as he held his bloody right hand in the doctor's face. Moving lover-close, he whispered in his ear. "That's your blood. Your life is spilling out of you. You don't want to die, do you, doctor?" 

The doctor shook his head. "N-n-n-noo." 

"Of course, not. No one does. And all through our lives, no one expects it to happen to them." With his fingers splayed open, Kiegan pressed his wide hand over the doctor's heart, leaving his handprint in blood like a hungry red spider. "But you will die, doctor, you will, unless you tell me what you've done to Didion Sachs." 

"I . . . I don't know what you're talking about." 

Kiegan reached for the knife and he gently pulled it free. Then, as though pushing through soft butter, he pressed the blade into the right of his back, piecing his other lung. The doctor shuddered as the electric pain rippled down his spine and he felt both his lungs collapse. 

"Soon you won't be able to breathe. You'll need to save yourself before you faint. Take my offer of salvation and tell me why you poisoned Sachs. I saw you inject the cancer serum into his treatments." The other doctors gasped and they ran out of the room toward's Didion's bed. "Tell me why you're trying to kill Didion Sachs." 

"This is mutiny," he gasped with his thin breath of air. "This is treason. I have to stop you." 

"No, doctor. The Project was treason. And this is redemption." With a shout, Kiegan snatched the knife from his back, then arched his hand around in a pincer-move. The bowie knife punched through the front of the man's chest and silenced his heart with one cut. 

Kiegan dropped the doctor like a pound of flesh and rushed to Didion's room. He saw Sebastian holding himself back as he saw the other two researchers jerking the IV bags away and hovering over Didion anxiously. When they saw the bloodied Kiegan standing in the doorway like a nightmare colossus, they all froze. Sebastian saw the painted red and his eyes widened with shock. 

"We didn't know Dr. Radford was doing this," one of the doctor's pleaded. "I understand," Kiegan replied without expression as he sheathed his blade. "Can you reverse the damage?" 

"We'll try." 

"Good." 

"Kiegan?" Sebastian whispered with some trepidation. 

"It's all right now. One of the researchers was working behind our backs. He was mixing the cancer suppression serum with the new treatment." 

One of the other doctors interrupted. "Doing that would cause a complete hormonal shutdown. It's the collapse of his endocrine system that's killing him, and not the treatments. We'll try to get his endocrine system working again, then start a pure treatment, but there's no telling what the reaction will be. At least we have some hope now." 

Sebastian forced his vision away from Kiegan and the threads of blood that dripped from his hands. He knew that these people had turned young soldiers into violent killers, but seeing it before his eyes still unnerved him. Instead, he focused on Didion, lying like a skeleton in his bed, staring blindly at the ceiling, his lungs moving with intermittent gasps. Kiegan approached and tried to put his arm around his best friend's lover. Sebastian instantly pulled away, the look of horror neon-bright on his face. 

Then Kiegan noticed the blood on his hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, his eyebrows wrinkled in a shameful glance, suddenly transforming him from brutality to vulnerability. He motioned to Didion with his clean left hand. "I . . . I told you I wouldn't let you down. Didion . . . he's going to be all right." 

Sebastian's dark eyes grew even darker. "This doctor who was poisoning him -- I'll assume by all the blood that he's dead now?" 

"Yes." 

The guide hardened with an icy vengeance. "Good." 

* * *

Lying in bed, Jim pulled his sleeping Blair tight to his chest, squeezing him hard until he finally heard Blair's muffled complaint. Relaxing his arms a little, he still held Blair close, his fingertips drawing random shapes on his guide's smooth, warm back. Blair loved him. Earlier that night they had both brought each other to a bursting climax and now it was done -- complete -- the circle had closed and he was holding his lover again. Before he realized what he was doing, Jim clutched Blair tighter. 

"Jim," Blair groaned. 

"Oh. Sorry, Chief. I didn't mean to wake you." 

With groggy movements, Blair picked himself up, then kissed Jim on the nose. As if reading his mind, Blair whispered, "And I love you, too." 

Jim grinned, and he pressed his lips on Blair's forehead. "I never stopped loving you. Please believe me." 

"I do. I was angry, and very hurt, and for a while there, I felt nothing. But deep inside, I think I always loved you. I wouldn't have been so mad if I hadn't." 

Their lips met in the darkness, a gentle, chaste kiss that lasted for only a moment. "Go back to sleep, Chief." He pulled Blair down to his chest again. "I'm watching over you now." 

Blair settled his head over Jim's heart, letting the man's heartbeat lull him back to sleep. 

* * *

As the days passed, Jim didn't pressure Blair into moving back to the loft. He didn't feel it was his place. But one day, as the two of them were stepping out of the loft, Jim to go to the station, Blair to go to Rainier, Jim held out a copy of the key. Blair stared at it for a moment, at the dark silver resting in Jim's palm. 

And without a word, he took it and threaded it back onto his keyring. 

"What are you doing tonight?" Jim asked, once in the hallway. 

"I don't know. I have a ton of work to get done tonight. It might be late. I'll call you when I get home." 

Jim's arms entwined around his waist, drawing him close, and he kissed him passionately. Since that night when they had slept with each other for the first time, in the loft, Jim had become increasingly attentive and considerate, fully aware of what he had once lost, and now regained. "I love you, Chief." 

Blair kissed him back. "I love you, too." Then he smiled. "It feels good to be able to say that again." 

Jim brushed a strand of curls behind Blair's ear. "You know, we could have lunch together." 

"I'll try. Maybe you could drop by Rainier and we could grab some dinner or something." 

"We'll play it by ear." 

They held each other close for a moment longer, reveling in the understanding that, although there were still issues to work out, at least they could love each other again. 

Neither of them realized that by the time the sun would set on tomorrow, their lives would be shattered. 

* * *

The night air brushed soft fingers through the black curl on Carl's forehead, lifting it, then setting it down over his eyebrow. He could feel the hunger in his lower stomach, could feel the heat between his legs that had to be silenced. How could his mind be so clear and yet his gut be such a burning, roiling foam that urged him to move in the darkness? Tonight there would be sweet relief from the energy that sparked inside him like static electricity. It had to be squelched again, the only way he knew how. Closing his eyes slightly, he imagined the copper smell of blood seeping into his nostrils, and how it would feel to slip his gloved hand into the slickness of another man's gut. The cold autumn wind caused his khaki trenchcoat to flap about his legs. 

It was so much sweeter when the prey knew him. He released a quick shudder of pleasure down his spine as he thought of Barry Parvin and how he had begged and pleaded. Oh, how Carl had prolonged the night, making such small cuts in his lovely skin, running the blood through his long hair, feeling his firm body wiggle and writhe against his bonds. So much better than those two undergrads he barely knew. And then Miller, crying out his name in anguish. 

Carl stopped, and with a pleasure-drunk smile on his face, he closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like when he would finally feel his hands on Blair Sandburg's body. How that mercurial mind would implore him, how he would make arguments and deals and schemes, and how Carl would navigate those intellectual waters with this man while inside Blair's body would scream for survival. 

But Blair would wait. He wouldn't pluck that fruit before it ripened. No, he would hold back that night for as long as he could. Tonight, he would douse the heat in his groin with something very close. 

He would take another of Blair's friends. 

He would wrench his fingers through that long, auburn hair. 

He would watch as those green eyes snapped from left to right. 

He would listen to that lilting southern accent, choked with panic. 

Carl shivered with a faint moan, then stepped forward again. 

* * *

Just as Blair pushed his key into the car door lock, he stopped. He glanced around the university parking lot. Something didn't seem right. He couldn't put his finger on it. His blue eyes scanned the area, taking in the orange cast of the halogen street lamps, the bend and sway of branches in the wind, the emptiness of it all. Suddenly he felt like a sole survivor of some catastrophe, doomed to walk the earth a forlorn stranger. 

He saw Collin's car parked beside his. Frowning slightly, he spun around slowly in place. "Collin, where the hell are you?" 

Shaking his head, Blair unlocked his car door. Then he stopped again. Something just wasn't right and he couldn't explain it and if only Jim were here so he could have the sentinel listen or look. But he was alone, so utterly alone. Not even a security guard or another late-night grad student. It unnerved him and made his skin crawl. 

/Collin was right behind me./ 

"Fine." Blair threw his backpack into the seat and slammed the door. /Maybe he went back to his office./ He turned to walk towards the English department. 

* * *

Collin pushed open the men's restroom door in the anthropology department and looked around. "Blair?" There was no one around. "Jeez, you didn't even wait for me?" Collin rolled his eyes, then shifted his backpack to his other shoulder. "Fine. Whatever." His rubber-soled hiking boots squeaked against the linoleum floor as he headed towards the exit. 

Not far from the doorway, he saw the bucket and mop sitting to the side. The sharp tang of ammonia stung his nose. /I wonder where Carl is?/ Collin took a moment to look around, his ears listening for any sound of the janitor. 

Nothing. 

An eerie silence blanketed the hallway. 

He shrugged his shoulders, then pushed open the doors. A quick blast of cold air tousled his hair, blocking his vision. He tried to blow his hair from his face with a puff of air, but that didn't help. The wind continued to knock his auburn hair into his eyes. Collin ran down the steps, and when his feet struck the sidewalk, his hand brushed the strands away. 

Only to have it blown back when he took his hand away. 

"Whatever." 

Collin dropped his backpack, then rummaged through its contents until he found a rubber band. He scooped his long hair with graceful fingers into one bunch and secured it into a ponytail. That done, he searched for his keys, moving books and papers around until he felt the familiar ring of metal. 

In the shadows of the anthropology department, Carl watched the entire scene. He didn't move as he observed Collin fix his hair, but he couldn't help imagining unbinding that long hair again. He wondered if Collin's blood would make his hair any redder, or if it would dye his hair black and sticky. The hunger rose in his throat and he could no longer swallow the calling. With anxious hands, he squeezed the sock filled with sand that he carried. He had long ago discovered that this was the best method. A quick thwack against the back of the head and the prey fell like an apple. Holding his breath, he stepped out of the shadows and came closer. 

Still imagining the parking lot empty, Collin approached his car. He saw that Blair's Vovlo was still there parked next to his, and he stopped. 

Carl ducked behind a tall camelia bush. 

Collin looked around the area, noticing how the city lights painted the sky a hazy orange. Some lights were still on in the gothic brick buildings, but he didn't see any silhouettes. /Now where's Blair? I thought he had gone without me./ Peering through the glass in Blair's car windows, he saw his roommate's backpack lying in the front seat. /I wonder where he went off to?/ 

Not paying attention to what he was doing, Collin missed the slot for his carkey, and his key ring fell from his hands. He shook his head slightly as he bent down to retreive it. 

A strange hand clutched the keychain off the asphalt. Collin immediately sprang up and slammed his back against the car door, his hand on his chest. "Jesus Christ, don't ever sneak up on me like that again!" 

Dark eyes and a bashful smile made him relax as Collin recognized the long black hair and reddish-brown skin. The wind shifted threads of black hair from one shoulder to another. "Sorry," Nic said as he held out Collin's keys. "Didn't mean to startle you. I thought you saw me." 

"No. That's okay." Collin caught his breath. "I was looking for Blair, actually. Have you see him?" 

"Blair? No, I haven't. That's his car, though, isn't it?" He pointed. 

"Yeah. He left his backpack. I wonder where he went?" Then Collin eyed him sharply with his head cocked to one side. "What are you doing here, by the way?" 

"Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd walk around the campus." 

"This late?" 

"I can take care of myself." 

Collin appraised his body, remembering those bare muscles when he and Blair had gone dancing that night. "Yeah, I guess you can." 

"Uhm, look, Collin, uhm, about the other day. . ." Nic scratched at his scalp, looking down at his feet. "I'm . . . I'm really sorry about that. I didn't mean to step on any toes or get you in trouble with your boyfriend. I guess I should have realized you were with Ian that night at the party, but I just . . . sensed that you guys weren't together." 

Collin shrugged his shoulders. "The signals are there. I can't argue with that." 

"Oh. Oh. Then I wasn't wrong." 

"No, not exactly wrong. I'm not quite sure what's going on. Just bad timing on your part." 

"Oh. Okay." Nic frowned suddenly, and Collin fought the impulse to run his fingers through his hair, to comfort him. Some part of him felt really sorry for this man, how he had approached Blair, then himself, only to be rejected by both of them. And yet, Nic swung with the punches and kept his disposition friendly and cheerful. He tried to imagine for a second, as they stood here in the cold wind, what it would be like to live with a man so friendly and kind. 

/Ian's kind./ The thought intruded. 

Suddenly self-conscious, Collin spoke quickly, "Uhm, look, I need to go. Do you . . . need a ride?" 

"No, I'm fine. I think I'll stroll around for a little while longer. Maybe I'll try to track Blair down." 

Secretly relieved that Nic hadn't taken him up on his offer, Collin smiled. "Okay. Look, I'll see you around then." He shoved his car key into the lock and opened the door. Nic held the door for him, then shut it once Collin sat down behind the steering wheel. 

"Take care, Collin," Nic waved, and he watched the auburn-haired doctor start his car, then drive away into the night. 

* * *

From his cover behind the camelia, Carl's eyes narrowed with anger. /That Indian ruined everything!/ His fingers gripped the sand-filled sock so hard that his knuckles paled and his fingertips numbed. He wanted Collin. He needed to have the southerner's green eyes slowly wake up, and for Collin's heart to skip when he realized his ankles and wrists were tied tight. He needed to have him recognize the face grinning at him like a vampire, needed to have him see his reflection flash in Carl's bowie knife. And now that was taken away. His prey was flying off now, on his way home, and tonight his loins were burning and he had to satisfy this craving. Carl's muscles trembled with frustration and desire. 

He watched as the Native American turned slowly in the wind, his leather duster rising and falling, long black hair spreading like a black web in the air, so silky it reflected the lamplight. He would quench his thirst tonight, and he would silence the call for revenge at the same time. His long legs stepped away from the camelia bush, and with as much stealth as his shaky nerves would allow him, Carl followed Nic around the anthropology building, to the English hall. 

Then suddenly Blair burst through the doors of the English department. Carl ducked behind a car and waited. He listened as Blair spoke to Nic, passing small talk and conversation about Collin. /Go away,/ he chanted, /go away, go away, go away./ By now, he was shaking so hard he could barely hold the sock, and he passed it from hand to hand. Apparently, Nic was apologizing again, causing Carl to groan as he rocked the back of his head against the car door. /Just shut the fuck up and keep walking./ 

Eventually they hugged, and Blair waved him goodbye. With an animal-like posture, Carl slid around the edge of the car, always blocking himself from Blair's vision, as the anthropologist walked by. /Blair./ One day, his hand would hold that lovely tangle of hair as his fingers twisted around his slimy intestines. One day. 

Nic was moving again, and Carl took longer strides to close the distance. He hoped, pleaded to any dark god who would listen, that the Native American would take the route away from the quadrangle, the one that passed through the narrow alley between the back entrances of the art and music buildings. No windows. Just tall rectangles of brick and gray-painted fire escapes. 

For a brief moment, Nic stopped, and he pointed his eyes towards the night sky. There were no stars. Just orange haze and wind. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather duster, then stepped into the darkness of the alleyway. 

Carl suppressed a passionate cry, and he darted towards the alleyway, his sand-filled sock swinging in the air. 

* * *

Blair fought with his keys again, trying to find the one to his car. So many on his key chain. His office. His apartment. Jim's loft. He stopped for a moment. Jim had given him the key that morning. He had held it out to him, so nervous he was almost shaking. They hadn't said anything. Only made eye contact. But in that moment, Blair had read both Jim's hopes and fears as he held the key out in silence. Blair remembered leaving it for him, and how he never wanted to hold it again. Now, here it was, being held out to him again. 

And Blair had reached out for it, taken it slowly, then slipped it back on his keyring without much ceremony. 

Suddenly the air vibrated with the low tones of barking dogs, their spark-like sounds bouncing off the stone buildings and metal cars. Blair felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Very, very slowly he turned around, his mind screaming in fear, knowing already what he would see. 

Only, there were no dogs. 

He waited, his ears focusing on all the sounds -- on the wind pushing paper across the asphalt -- on the hiss of passing cars in the distance. 

No dogs. 

For a moment, Blair stared down at his car. His instincts urged him to jump behind the wheel and take off, but another worry plagued him. 

Nic. Nic was strolling around the campus. With long hair. 

Shoving his keys back into his pocket, Blair cursed himself as he hurried back towards the quadrangle to search for Nic. 

* * *

Nic stopped in the middle of the alleyway. His dark eyes changed. No longer was he friendly, bashful, smiling like an exotic boy next door. 

Now those black eyes were hard. Cruel. 

He easily heard the tramping footsteps rushing towards him. /This man is too reckless./ With an utter calmness, he reached back, his hand dipping past the collar of his duster. There, strapped in a holster along the length of his spine, was the silk-wrapped hilt he needed. Then he waited as he focused his mind to shut down. The meditation quickly closed off his conscious mind, leaving only the sparks of an animal instinct controlling his muscles. 

Carl came closer, and he saw Nic standing there with his arm bent back, locked in a vee with his hand touching the back of his neck, but he didn't seem to register the strangeness. All he could see were the blood-smeared images in his mind's eye, haunting him, driving him forward as he raised the sock in the air. 

Then his mind stopped the glistening red slide-show when he witnessed Nic's body suddenly come alive. Everything happened so fast that he wasn't quite sure if he saw the flash of imagination or the swirl of reality. Nic's right arm jerked away, and there was a jarring white spark of light against a 16 inch blade. The duster-clad man spun around, his hair arcing with him, and Carl noticed with an almost academic inquiry that Nic's eyes were vague and hazy. 

Something tugged at his right hand. 

Carl held it up to see what he had felt. And he noticed -- the abrupt ending of his wrist. 

Looking down, he saw his hand, lying on the ground, still gripping the sand-filled sock. 

Carl glanced up one more time to witness another flash of light against the blade as it came around a second time, and then there was darkness. 

Like a cat, Nic sprang back from the decapitated body as both the head and frame collapsed onto the ground. With one blink of his eyes, he regained control of his conscious mind and he quickly surveyed the area. No witnesses. Rapidly, he grabbed a small white cloth from the inside of his duster, and wiped the blood from his short blade. Then he reached again into his coat to grab his phone. 

In an Asiatic language, he spoke: "Cali, it's Phoenix. . . . Our assessment was correct. The janitor was the killer. He tried to attack me. He's dead now." 

"You weren't supposed to kill him! You were just supposed to make sure neither of our targets got hurt before the Diamond Council was ready to move." 

"The whole point of using me in this mission was for him to target me eventually." 

The woman's voice on the other line replied, "It doesn't matter. This has all been a stroke of luck anyway. If that janitor hadn't killed those two students in one of our warehouses, we wouldn't have known about him before the police did, anyway. Besides, I didn't think I could have held the police back much longer. And Burlington wants this done as soon as possible. I think I've gathered enough information for now. I've managed to get copies of Ellison's files. I won't need my cover any longer. What about you. Have you found out enough about Sandburg and the others?" 

"Yes. Do we proceed with capture?" 

"Yes. Do it tomorrow." 

Phoenix closed the phone, slipped it into his duster, slid his sword back in its holster, then melted into the darkness like a phantom. 

* * *

"Nic?!" Blair shouted into the darkness. Only his echo returned to him. "Nic?!" Blair strolled through the empty campus, every instinct crying out for him to run from this place and seek shelter. He forced those fears down. Nic was somewhere on this campus, and for some reason, Blair just "felt" that he was in trouble. Stopping in the shadow of the music department, he cursed himself for leaving his cell phone in his car. He rushed back, practically running. Both Jim and Rafe had insisted that he take another cell phone, and now he wished he had it with him. In no time, Blair was back at his car, scrambling for keys and then rummaging through his backpack until he found it. 

Now, walking back towards the music department, he quickly punched in Jim's phone number. A few seconds later, he heard Jim's voice. "Ellison." 

"Jim, it's me." 

"What's wrong?" 

"I don't know." 

"Something is wrong, then, isn't it?" 

"You're gonna think I'm nuts, but yes. And I don't know what it is. Something's just . . . wrong." 

Blair stepped into the alley between the art and music department, and when he did, he almost stumbled over Carl's body. "What the . . ." 

"Blair!" Jim shouted into the phone. 

"Oh my god," he whispered. In the twilight, he could see Carl's headless body, the neck cut so sharply it resembled a sliced sausage. 

"Blair, where are you?!" 

"I'm . . . I'm at Rainier. In front of the music department." Blair spun around, so afraid someone was behind him. "I just found a body. It looks like The Order." 

"Blair, hang up. Call 911. Get into an open area and don't hang up the phone with them. Do you understand? Stay on the line with 911. Got it?" 

Blair was already moving into the glare of a street lamp. "I'm doing it, Jim. I'm doing it. Just get here, all right?" 

"I'm on my way." 

* * *

Jim arrived at the university only moments after the police, the tires to his truck squealing as he rounded the corners. He found Blair quickly, surrounded by uniformed officers, and he resisted every urge to embrace Blair the minute he saw him. Instead, his open hand fell on Blair's shoulders and he asked, "Are you okay?" 

"A little shaken up." 

"Where's the body?" 

"It's over there." 

"Stay here." 

"No," Blair replied immediately. "I'm coming with you." 

Both men approached the prone body just as one officer was marking the area off with tape. Jim's flashlight beamed onto the headless body before scanning the area. In seconds, he spotted the head. 

Seeing the coat, and then the dark black hair, Blair moaned. "Oh, man, it's Carl." 

"Who's Carl?" 

"He's the janitor." 

"His hand's missing . . . wait, there it is. It's been cut off." 

Both men grew very silent. The cuts were too sharp. Too much like the deaths Rafe and Brown had witnessed outside Martinez's "club." 

"I think you're right, Blair. I think this is The Order." 

"They were here," Blair whispered. "Oh my god, they were here. It is me they're after." "Stay calm, Chief. Stay calm." Jim looked over his shoulder. "Rafe and Simon are coming, so don't freak out. Just keep your cool." 

* * *

The sun rose the next day with Blair and Jim still at the station. Neither of them had left, or had had any sleep. They had remained at the university until midnight, examining the details of the murder site, until they received a call from the unit that had been sent to investigate Carl Porter's apartment. Rafe, Jim and Blair drove to the address, and what they found caused Blair to question everything he knew about Carl, and about his own abilities to judge people. Jim had always said he was too trusting and now he believed him. The bookshelves in the bedroom were lined with surgical texts, all of them cataloguing visceral scenes and images. Then they found the various bowie knives he collected, and after that, four bloody tokens of his victims. 

The three of them returned to the station to begin closing the Rainier investigation, yet at the same time, opening a new one -- this one focusing on Carl's death as well as the lethal attack on the five members of the Bouricos gang. 

Blair stepped over to Rafe's desk, and he set down a cup of coffee for him. "Thanks, Blair." Then Rafe handed the observer a thick manilla envelope. "Could you put that in the outbox over there? Thanks." 

"Sure. No problem." Blair glanced at the address on the front, and he froze. "Brian, what is this?" 

"It's the reports on what we found at Porter's apartment. I'm sending them to Dr. Simms. Why?" 

"Why did you spell her first name like this?" He held up the envelope for him to see. 

Rafe shrugged his shoulders. "That how she told me she spelled it." 

From across the bullpen, Jim had smelled Blair's fear and heard his panicked heartbeats. He gently set his hands on Blair's shoulders and asked, "What is it, Chief?" 

He spun around and held up the envelope. "Look." He pointed to the first name. "Look at how Dr. Simms spells her first name." 

Jim read the envelope, and his heart skipped a beat. 

CALI 

"Jim, it wasn't Kelly. It was Cali." 

"The city. In Columbia." 

"Jim, she was one of them. She's been watching us this whole time. Watching us both." 

Like a caged panther, Jim began to pace in the bullpen. 

"Bass said that the whole reason the Project was started to begin with was to counteract these people. They have to know we're involved with the Project, otherwise, why would they be here?" 

Looking up at his guide, Jim said softly, "Chief, if they know we're involved in the Project, then they have to know Ian is as well." 

* * *

Ian stepped out of his shower, draping his heavy white terry cloth robe around himself. For several long moments, he stared at his reflection in the mirror as the mist from the steam burned away. Last night had been a painful revelation for him. Collin had remained in the living room, reading, long after Ian had gone to bed. For a while, he wondered if the only reason Collin had even spent the night was due to habit. And it had been weeks since the two of them had had sex together. Finally, Collin had slipped into the bed. Still half asleep, Ian had rolled over and seen Collin's back facing him, as it had been every time they slept together. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then closed his eyes. 

Their relationship was at an end. And even though he had wanted to distance himself from Collin, to protect him, it still hurt nonetheless. 

How many men would he lose to the Project? 

Stepping out fully dressed from his bedroom, Ian stopped in the kitchen to pour himself some coffee. He noticed Collin standing in front of the window, staring out into the distance. Finally steeling his nerve, Ian approached. 

"Col?" 

Collin turned without saying anything. 

"I think we need to talk." 

Collin nodded. "I know." He looked out the window one more time, as if to gain strength from the view of Cascade, then he faced Ian. "Something's wrong between us." 

"I still love you." 

"I know. And I love you, too. But we've gotten so . . . distant." 

"I feel it's my fault," Ian said. 

"I think it might be both of our faults." 

"What happened . . . at the dedication ceremony. It just has me scared. I don't want something like that to happen to you." 

Collin nodded again, understanding. For a moment they were silent, before Collin said, "It was hard enough losing Bass to something I couldn't comprehend. And then to realize that Didion came here, because I was Bass' cousin and I provided access for him . . . to you . . . to Blair and Jim. If it hadn't been for me, none of this would have happened." 

"Col, they didn't come here for you. They came here for me. You were just a coincidence." 

"A hell of a coincidence if you ask me." 

"But the fact remains, Didion and I . . . I used to work with the same group . . . and they'll send someone after me, one day. I just . . . don't want you to be in the way." 

"And so this is the reason you've been pushing me away?" 

"Yes," Ian confessed. 

"So do you want me to leave?" 

"I want you to be safe." 

Collin slipped past him, into the kitchen, to refill his coffee cup. 

Ian followed after him. "You don't seem too upset about this," he said. "I guess I saw it coming." 

"You have been a little distant yourself, lately," Ian countered. 

Collin stared at him for a moment. "I know," was all he said. 

"Did you want to leave, too?" 

He stirred his coffee, silent, then said, "I don't know. After Bass and Didion . . . and Miriam . . . once they were all here . . . I don't know . . . I started thinking about things that I thought I had put behind me." 

"Things . . . or some one?" Ian asked. 

"Both." 

Just then the phone rang. "Bloody hell," Ian whispered to himself as he reached for the phone. "Hello . . . Oh, hello, Blair." Ian looked up at Collin. "Yes, he's here." The doctor listened for some moments, pacing in front of the sofa. "Yes. We'll wait here." Then he hung up. 

* * *

Ian shifted the strap of his overnight bag from one shoulder to the other as he followed Collin and Blair out of the condominium. Already he could feel the first shaking fingers of a panic attack easing through his chest, making him light-headed. Jim hadn't really said what was going on, just that he was afraid they were in danger. And not from the Project, but from someone else. Someone working against the Project and even more deadly. Just from Jim's phone call, he wasn't so sure he needed to be afraid. What would another group want with him? He was only dangerous to the Project, and only because he could expose them. 

But when Blair had burst into his condo, Ian knew something was dreadfully wrong. He had never seen Blair so afraid, so hunted. His blue eyes jerked, trying to take in every detail as his lithe body darted back and forth. Just seeing his fear had sparked Ian to faster movements, and in no time he had thrown clothes into a bag and was ready to leave. 

Collin seemed the most calm, but Ian knew that his was only a facade. Behind those green eyes lay the same apprehension that Ian was feeling. Something was wrong. Blair didn't act like this, even when he was scared. He allowed Blair to drag him out of the building without voicing any complaints or asking any questions. He had only spoken while they were in the elevator, discussing which car to take. Collin's was parked across the street, near where Blair had parked, and Blair wanted them to stay together as much as possible. The thought of going into the dark underground parking garage to get Ian's BMW made the anthropologist nervous. 

They waited a minute for the cars to pass before dashing across the street. Collin's car was in sight when the piercing screech of tires braking on the asphalt caused them both to freeze and turn around. 

A glossy black Mercedes skidded onto the sidewalk, and all three of them scrambled out of its way. The back passenger door opened and a man stepped out, his pistol aimed at the three of them. Blair raised his hands in surrender, and in an instant he noticed the black outfit hugging the body tight, the copper skin, and the long black hair held in a ponytail. But gone were his many silver rings, and the hoops from his ears, and the leather bracelets. 

"Nic?" 

"Get in the car, Collin." 

Collin stared at Nic for a moment, taking in the black clothes and the gun pointed into his face. "You must be joking." 

"I said get in the car." 

"No!" 

"Get in the car." 

The driver's side door opened and another man Blair didn't recognize popped out, also dressed in black. "Phoenix, the police are coming." 

"Phoenix?" Blair let the name drop from his mouth. 

Then his heart stopped. 

/Phoenix. Nic./ 

"Oh my god." 

Phoenix raised one eyebrow defiantly, then he aimed his gun . . . directly at Ian. The gun bucked in his hand three times as the blasts clapped in Blair's ears. Three red stars burst across Ian's chest and he fell to the ground hard. 

"Ian!" Collin shouted, and as he tried to run to his lover's side, Phoenix snatched him by his long hair. 

"I said, get in the car." 

"No! Ian!" 

"Get in the car, or Blair's next." 

"NO!" 

Phoenix stared into Collin's eyes as he lifted the gun one more time. The explosion ripped into Collin's ear, and he jumped from the noise as he watched the flesh on Blair's leg tear open. Blair dropped to one knee, grabbing his thigh in pain. 

Then Phoenix clubbed Collin across the face before throwing him into the back seat. Blair tried to pull himself up, but he was too late. The Mercedes peeled down the street only moments before Blair registered the sirens. Quickly, he grappled with his wounded leg, dragging himself on his elbows to Ian's prone body. "Ian! Ian!" he shouted as he pulled his friend into his lap. 

"B-b-blair?" Blood fell from the doctor's lips. 

"Stay with me, Ian! Don't you dare die on me. Do you understand me?! Do you understand me?!" 

"So . . . cold." 

"IAN!" 

End Part One.  
Next: Huntsman, What Quarry, Part II  
Jim and Blair make an alliance with the devil to save Collin, and their own lives, from the evil that hunts them.


End file.
